The Stubborn Old Marine
The address led to a mansion behind iron gates.
My shoes were worn at the heels, and the collar of my borrowed shirt kept curling upward.
I nearly left before a gray-haired woman opened the door.
Her eyes dropped to my shoes, then returned to my face.
“I’m Margaret. You must be Kevin.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel like a school principal.”
She led me into a wide hallway that smelled faintly of furniture polish.
“Mr. Howard is a retired Marine,” she explained. “Mean as a rattlesnake and twice as stubborn. Four caregivers have quit.”
I stopped beside the staircase.
If she learned the truth after hiring me, it would feel like another lie.
“I’ve been to prison,” I said.
Margaret turned around.
“For what?”
“Stealing.”
She studied me long enough that I began planning my walk back to the bus stop.
“Well, we don’t need another polished boy from an agency,” she finally said. “Maybe you’ll last longer than the others.”
Mr. Howard sat near a window with a cane across his knees.
He wore a pressed white shirt and an expression that suggested my existence had inconvenienced him.
“Who’s that?”
“Kevin, the applicant.”
“Sounds nervous.”
“I am, sir,” I said.
“At least he’s honest about something. Can he make coffee?”
I could.
Apparently, I could not place it correctly.
Mr. Howard reached for the cup before I moved the tray near enough, knocking coffee over my pants.
“You call that coffee, boy?”
Margaret picked up a napkin.
“Howard, you spilled it.”
“Because he put it in another county.”
I almost left.
Then I noticed his hand close around the armrest.
May you like
Beneath the bluster, he was embarrassed.
So I stayed.
