The Hungry House (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

At 7:05 p.m. that evening,
I walked in late to my first university class--English Composition. I loved literature and so looked forward to the material. At first, I imagined that every student in the huge auditorium had turned to stare. Then, just as I had managed to convince myself that no one really cared that I was late, the professor stopped his lecture to watch me until I took my seat. Of course, no seats were available in the back, so I had to walk up to the fourth row. The professor resumed his lecture.

A n
ote was discreetly passed to me while the teacher looked at his computer to check his PowerPoint notes. It read, "His name is Dr. Bruce, but I think he should be called Dr. Beast--Paul Olson." I turned to see who had passed the note. The young man sitting next to me smiled at me and winked. I studied his face and considered whether the note was some sort of pickup line. Though his hair looked as if it had been combed with his fingers, he was very easy on the eyes. A natural blond with brown eyes, his face and arms were tanned. I could see a line of white on the top of his forehead, where a hat had protected it from the sun. Paul was traditionally good-looking, and his playful and intelligent expression gave him a magnetic appeal. I concluded that he had no need for pickup lines.

He was d
ressed in a tee shirt and faded jeans, and his long legs stretched down under the seat in front of him where his ankles crossed. As Dr. Bruce carefully explained the significance of the first assignment, Paul turned to me with comically large eyes. I heard a giggle and turned to see where it had come from. A girl sitting in the row behind him was watching Paul's every move.

"Your pre-class assignment was to read
Man's Search for Meaning.
What event in Victor Frankl's life prompted him to write the book?" Several hands went up.

Dr. Bruce pointed at Paul
, who had not raised his hand. "Can you answer the question?" Perhaps he had seen the note or Paul's comical expression.

"Yes. It was his confinement in a Nazi concentration camp."

"What was the term he used for the existentialist therapy he developed?"

"Logotherapy
," he answered.

Dr.
Bruce looked surprised that he had at least glanced at the book. I had been so engrossed that I had read it in one sitting.

The
lecture proved to be quite interesting, mostly because I found Frankl's ideas fascinating. If Frankl could transform his concentration camp experiences into a helpful therapy for his patients, then surely I could manage to meet my personal challenges. I did not yet know how, but I had to find a way to make my mother's life easier.

After class,
as I placed my things into my backpack, I glanced Paul's way.

He smiled
. "Heavy stuff, huh?"

"I actually
liked
the book."

He gave me
a long, appraising look and then said, "
I
liked it."

"Oh
. Sorry. Some people think these classes are boring." We walked down the hallway towards the building's exit. I felt a connection to Paul, like an electric current, drawing me to him.

"And, you just assumed I was one of them
. That's okay." He shrugged. "In all honesty, I was supposed to take the class three years ago and kept putting it off. English Composition
did
sound boring."

"I think Frankl's ability t
o hold onto hope against all odds is so inspiring."

"Yeah, brilliant mind
and
tough. He was something else."

They stood
among a great throng of other pedestrians, waiting for the walk signal on SW Broadway in downtown Portland. Then Paul began walking toward the entrance of the parking garage.

Stopping, he turned back toward me
and gestured toward the parking garage entrance. "Going this way?"

"No, I'm on f
oot." I said.

Paul walked back to where I
stood. "You know, I never got
your
name."

"
I'm Vicky. Hey, what's your major?"

"Film. This is my senior year. What's yours?"

"Premed. And that was my
first
college class."

"Premed. You must be ambitious. Are you good at science and math
? You have to be to get into med school, you know.

I
felt a flash of annoyance. Yeah, I know; it's not like I haven't looked into this, I thought.               "I took every science class in high school and every math class through calculus and got straight A's." Listen to me.

"It's rare to meet a girl who's good at both those subjects."

"I'm interested in everything--science, math, film, art, literature, poetry--you name it," I said.

"I don't
dislike
poetry. I just don't usually understand it--well except for Robert Frost. I get him."

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--"
I began.

"--I took the one les
s traveled by," finished Paul. We chuckled.

Paul looked down at the sidewalk. "I really understand that poem. There's always a lot of pressure to do what everyone else is doing."

"I know. It's so easy to follow what others say, rather than doing what you know in your heart is right for you." She was thinking of all the boys she had seriously considered sleeping with to be part of the popular crowd.

As they talked,
I found myself watching Paul's hand on his backpack strap--such interesting fingers, long and sensitive but strong. I looked up to see him studying me, as if he were trying to understand something.

"Oh, I'm just babbling. You wouldn't believ
e what a long day I've had." I checked the time on my cell. "I really need to get going."

"Hey
--you want to grab a cup of coffee after next week's class?"

F
eelings of relief flooded through me. He had also felt a connection. Whoa girl, I thought. You've just met the guy. That horrible summer, I would have immediately slept with him.

             
"That would be great. See you next week?"

             
"Until then."

CHAPTER THREE

The following day Frank Armstrong awoke thinking of Vicky. After his usual coffee and croissant in bed with Bloomberg on the television, he buzzed Mrs. Black.

"Mrs. Black
, tell me everything you know about the girl who cleaned here yesterday. I want her name, address, and telephone number."

There was a brief
moment of silence on the line. "She is Elizabeth Howell's daughter, you know, our cleaning lady. She just graduated from--oh, sorry. You just wanted the contact information."

"No, that's all right
--please continue." Suddenly, his voice brimmed with kindness and patience.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, tell me everything you know about her. Take your time."

"
Her mother told me she has just begun as a freshman at Portland State University. She was accepted at UCLA but decided to go to school here. She's a premed major.

"Okay. Contact info.
"

He wrote down
the data and brought his hands together at his chin, the way he always did when making what he thought were important decisions. He rose to walk across the antique Persian carpet gracing his bedroom floor and looked down at his garden and pool. So, she was smart as well as beautiful. Now, he found himself even more interested in her. A challenge. He would have to approach this very carefully. He had a hunch, now that he knew a little more about her, that she probably would refuse to go out with him.

Again, he buzzed Mrs. Black. "Is
Elizabeth Howell here today?"

"Yes."

"Get her on the horn, pronto."

About ten seconds later, Liz came to the phone.
"Mr. Armstrong?" She sounded breathless.

"Hi, Mrs.--
"

"--
everyone calls me Liz."

"O
kay Liz. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

"Have I done something wrong?
" There was real anxiety in her voice.

"Oh, no
. Quite the opposite. You're an excellent housekeeper."

"Oh, good. Well--I have a lot of work--"

"Trust me; you don't have to worry about th
at right now. How did it happen that your daughter came to work at my home yesterday?"

"T
hat won't happen again."

"
I'm not upset about it. I'm just concerned about your welfare."

"Oh
--yes?"

"Mrs. Black has
a business proposition for you, Liz." He would immediately speak to Mrs. Black and give her the cover story. "Are you interested?"

"Okay."

"She wants to talk to Vicky about doing some office work for her. She thinks your daughter is extremely bright. You don't have any objection to her helping out Mrs. Black do you?"

"No. I don't but Vicky might. She's
very busy right now. You'll have to talk to her directly about it."

"
We could find someone else to do the heavy cleaning. Your daughter would run errands, do some light bookkeeping, supervise the cleaning, and assist Mrs. Black when I entertain. In short, all the things Mrs. Black wants help with. We could provide a small salary, and you both could live in the guest cottage. She could have the use of my mother's old Volvo. It's in perfect condition--just sitting there. Mrs. Black uses the newer Toyota I bought for her. Then, perhaps you could take a rest for a while."

###

The night, before my interview with Mrs. Black, I felt so nervous I called my best friend, Jennifer, for support. Although Jennifer and I did many things with our two friends Eileen and Betts, we had quickly developed an understanding between us and become kindred spirits, catching each other's eyes at secret moments in silent acknowledgement of something we both thought was humorous.

On my
first day at Benson High School, I had sat down to eat alone during the lunch period. So far, that morning, I had seen no one I recognized from my previous school years, and the school had felt crowded to me, like a small city. Everyone in the huge cafeteria seemed to be chatting with friends, and I had felt conspicuous sitting all by myself.

Then, Jennifer, a girl I
had known in elementary school, had waved and called to me. "Come on. Why don't you come over here and sit with us?"

F
eeling very grateful, I had gathered my things and moved to where Jennifer and two other girls sat at the end of a long table.

Suddenly, just after
I had joined the group and introductions were made, a very dangerous-looking girl had approached us. Dark circles ringed her angry eyes and some sort of a large safety pin pierced one of her ears. Placing her hands palm down on the table, she had leaned in close to Betts and said, "Hey, you're all sitting here like you're princesses or something."

Betts was arguably the most royal looking of the group, always impeccably dressed and coiffed, whether wearing a tee and tennis shoes or a silk shirt and flats with her jeans.
An ordinary-looking young woman with medium brown hair and hazel eyes, Betts charmed with her wit and poise. She had not often lacked a date on a Saturday night, all through high school.

Looking steadily at the girl and without missing a beat, Betts had replied, "I can see why you might think that. Thank you."

The girl had stared at her uncertainly and then walked away. When Betts lifted her water bottle, her hand was shaking. I had greatly admired Betts' panache and daring. The four of us had quickly become close, but Jennifer was my best friend.

Jennifer's chemistry professor
father and homemaker mother were very straight-laced and strict, often asking her why she could not seem to make straight A's like her sister, Amy. Although not maintaining the family's required grade point average because of bringing home the occasional B, Jennifer was a good daughter in other ways. Every night after dinner, she voluntarily put the dishes in the dishwasher and washed the pots and pans for her mother. She liked to eat oranges as she did this, and if I were visiting, my task was to peel the oranges and hand Jennifer sections while we talked. She lived in an unremarkable, split-level home with her parents, a brother, and a sister. Pretty, in a wholesome manner, she was tall, like me, with hazel eyes and naturally blond hair, worn long.

Jennifer's manner was quiet, and this could mislead others into thinking she was spineless. Some of the more unruly boys of Benson High had a habit of forming a gauntlet in the school hallway, whistling, hooting, and making embarrassing remarks as any girl passed. On one such occasion, as Jennifer
and I were attempting to walk by, Mike Neal had blocked Jennifer's path. As he turned away for a moment to share a laugh over the situation with his buddies, Jennifer decided to employ a karate move. She made use of his close proximity to cause him to lose his balance and flipped him over onto his back. The crowd of boys guffawed at his predicament. From then on the boys fell silent and stepped back whenever Jennifer and I walked by.

As we
talked on the phone the evening before my interview with Frank, I expressed my worries, and Jennifer tried to soothe me.

"I'm just so afraid that I'll say something wrong, and I won't get the job."

"Of
course
you'll get the job. You're the most beautiful, talented, intelligent person that could possibly apply."

"Well, don't you think you might be just a little bit prejudiced?"

"Yes, I am because I love you dearly, but that doesn't change the facts. How about if I come over to help you with your jitters and see what you're going to wear?"

"Okay."

An hour later, the bell rang, and I opened the door, expecting to see only Jennifer, but Betts and Eileen were with her. Eileen was a natural redhead who stood a whole five feet two inches tall. A slim pixie with short hair, she looked almost like a full-grown doll. As usual, she wore a merry smile.

As
I took a moment to gaze at them, I felt gratitude and affection that they had always taken me under their wings, since my first day of high school. The girls came from financially comfortable families, but they had seemed drawn to me. I would always treasure the memory of the four of us piling into Betts' white Subaru, all laughing and excitedly talking, to head to some outing. And, we were close. They would all take the secret of my pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage to their graves.

First,
I showed them the pantsuit and flats I planned to wear to my interview. They approved.

Then, Eileen
showed me how to put on a small amount of makeup that was invisible to the eye. I never wore makeup; I seemed to attract too much attention even without it. After discussing the interview, we chatted for an hour, and my nerves calmed.

###

On the day of the interview, my appearance had undergone an astonishing transformation from the day I had come to clean with barely the time to brush my hair and shower.

When she opened the door
, Mrs. Black's mouth opened wide in surprise. "Is it you Vicky Howell?  How nice you look."

Mrs. Black escorted
me to the library.

"Please have a seat.
" She walked towards a grouping of leather chairs and a sofa at one end of the room and I followed her. We sat opposite each other, she on the sofa and me on a chair.

"Your mother tells
me that you are an excellent student."

"
I study hard. What exactly
is
the job?"

"You will be assisting
me with some fairly simple tasks. You know, doing grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, making bank deposits, correspondence--that sort of thing. In addition, you could help me when Mr. Armstrong entertains. I've been asking him for some help for quite some time, and I think you would do nicely--on a three-month trial basis, of course. There is a small office in the back of the library with a desk and my files. You and your mother could live in the guest cottage. No one has lived in it for many a year. Several years ago, I moved from the guest cottage into the main house. By the way, do you have a laptop?"

"No I don't."

"Well, we'll get you one. Then, you can work anywhere. W would pay $10 per hour for a 20-25 hour week. You could have the use of an older Volvo, gas and maintenance included. It's 15-years-old but in excellent condition. So, now tell me the hours you would be available to work?"

"I have weekday afternoons available
. Of course, I need time to study. All my classes are in the evening. Plus, my work study begins in a week--that's two hours a day in the early morning."

Mrs. Black
's face clouded over. "Are you sure you have time for this job?"

"Well, I don't know."
I frowned. Then I had a burst of inspiration. "Having the car will save me about 20 hours a week."

"Sounds a little more plausible.
Will you take it on a trial basis?"

"Yes. Thank you. You won't regret it."

Mrs. Black gave me a thoughtful look and then smiled. "Would you like to look at the cottage?"

I
nodded. She handed me the keys to the car and the cottage. "It's in the back beside the pool. The largest key opens the front door. Take your time. I think you'll like it."

The guest cottage was an old-fashioned home with a landscaped front yard. T
he front door was red and rounded at the top, in the Norman style. After entering a small hallway with a hardwood floor, she began lifting dust covers from the furniture. The antique furniture in the hallway and living room would perfectly suit her mother's taste. The kitchen was rather small but had a dishwasher and an updated sink. A sensation of warmth on my shoulders caused me to turn to the right.

A
cozy breakfast nook extended from the kitchen, and at that moment, the sun shone through the three leaded windows. Lifting the dust covers, I discovered an oak table with four chairs. A painting on the wall of a mother reading to a child complimented the room.

I
walked to the back of the house to count the bedrooms. Two furnished bedrooms. The largest, with an attached bathroom, I would give to my mother. I returned to the main house and attempted to hand the keys back to Mrs. Black.

"No, you
keep them, unless you decide not to accept the job." She said.

"Of course, I need to discuss this with my mother, since she will be living with me."

"Take your time. If you and your mother agree, you begin work a week from Monday. You may move into the cottage any time you wish."

Once home, I
had been surprised and a little disappointed at my mother's response to our good fortune. Mother seemed wary of the offer but was glad to hear that she could take some time off from work.

Her final words on the subject were, "
If you have to quit, we'll manage somehow. Don't feel under any obligation."