Twenty Grand by Rebecca Curtis Page B

me. You look honest. And I met your father. He’s a good man.”
    â€œHe’s good at fixing cars,” I said.
    He leaned forward. “That’s important. It’s important to fix cars.”
    I wasn’t sure what to do with this. I felt as if he were saying something intimate. But he was talking about cars. My father was a shame between us, acknowledged and then forgotten.
    What I understood then was that the world was contriving in secret, with swiftness and accuracy, to keep Jacques Michaud from making the park a success. But, Herculean, he was lifting it onto his shoulders. I was invited to be with him while he lifted it. Perhaps I could help.
    I liked how he looked. His white hair curled over his broad forehead a bit, which made him seem oddly boyish. He had a wide, hawklike nose, a strong chin, and full pink lips.
    â€œLet’s say I interview you,” he said. “I’ve hired everyone I need. The law says you’re too young to work moving machinery. That means you can’t load sleds on the lift, top or bottom. So why should I hire you—what can you do?”
    My spine straightened. “Well,” I said. “I can stand at the bottom of the slide. I can also sit at the top of the slide and show people how to use their sleds. I know CPR. I could work at the waterslide.” I listed other things. He listened without expression. “I suppose I could work in the cafeteria,” I said. “Though I’d really rather work at the slide—”
    â€œStop,” he said. “You’re hired.”
    â€œThank you so much,” I said.
    He put his cigar on the plate and came around to my side of the table. I stood up. I assumed the interview was over. His hand came out and I stared at it. “Shake hands,” he said.
    I did. His hand was large and warm.
    â€œNow we’re partners,” he said. Then he gave me some forms to fill out and disappeared into the basement.
    I was about to leave when he appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Hey, Bowman,” he said. “Do you know what I’m counting on to make the park a success?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œI’m counting on you,” he said. “You are excellent. I’ve hired an excellent staff. And you will be excellent, too. I can tell.”
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    N O ONE HE ’ D HIRED was over twenty-three, and most were eighteen. The other employees were the most popular people in my school, but because I was the youngest by far they accepted me as a kind of younger retarded sister. We were bonded by the fact that we all loved Jacques. He was the kind of man who was willing to make a group of kids his friends. This didn’t mean that we weren’t aware of an aura of failure about him, that we didn’t sense that he was lonely and sad or feel glad that we weren’t him. But he had given us jobs. He paid us more than minimum wage. And he did not require us to wear uniforms. The boys wore dark swim trunks of their choosing and the girls could wear whatever. Most wore bikinis. We were given fifteen-minute breaks every three hours, and during them we were free to ride the waterslide to cool off. The lodge had a bar in the basement that had originally been for skiers, which Jacques didn’t open to the public. But sometimes at the end of the day, when the pink sun was lighting just the tips of the wheat around the parking lot and all the customers had left and we’d finished putting the sleds away and hosing the platforms down, he opened it for us.
    I went once. The carpet was the same nubbly blue as the cafeteria’s—only it hadn’t been replaced—and the room had a long black bar, a bunch of barstools, and some wooden tables and chairs. I sat at a table with some other workers and listened to what they said. I was perfectly happy. The bar smelled like incense, grease, and nutmeg. The sun was coming in through the basement window and illuminating