The Power House Wives. Fredrica Greene
as possible.
Wes grunted without looking up.
“It would be an easy commute.”
“Let it go, Laurel. I’ll take care of the job search,” he said without looking up.
Laurel bit her lip. She didn’t see any signs of his looking for one. Unless he expected to find it on television. He spent most of his days glued to the seat of his recliner. He’d always been addicted to sports shows, but now he was even watching Celebrity Poker and Gunsmoke reruns. The resumés he’d had printed up in an initial burst of energy sat piled on his desk.
She felt a sharp pain in her chest. Was this spasm a heart attack or gas? Most likely stress. Her mother had taught her patience was a virtue, but she’d been virtuous enough. It was time for Wes to get off his duff.
Just below the management ads, the words MEAL PREPARATION caught her eye. There was scant information -- part-time job, mornings only, the name Dixie’s Catering, and a phone number.
She folded the paper so the Management section was prominent and laid the classified section on the table in front of Wes. He finished his coffee, got up, and walked into the den without looking at the paper. Laurel sighed and poured herself a second cup of coffee.
The next morning while she dusted around the pile of resume’s on Wes’s desk, Laurel asked, “Aren’t you going to send these out?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said as he surfed through the channels with his remote
Laurel folded her dust cloth and tucked it into her apron pocket. Enough was enough.
She marched into the kitchen, looked up the newspaper ad, then hesitated. She had never applied for a job before. What if they asked for a resume? She had no work experience. On the other hand, she knew about cooking. As her mother always said “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Laurel picked up the phone and dialed. If Wes wouldn’t look for work, she would.
“Dixie’s Catering.” It took Laurel a moment to determine that the deep voice was female. She sounded as if she were speaking with a throatful of sand.
“I saw your ad,” Laurel said.
“What’s your experience?” Dixie asked.
“I have a lot of kitchen experience.” Laurel crossed her fingers, though it wasn’t really a lie.
“Hours are five to eight, Monday through Friday.”
“I’m afraid that won’t work. It’s our dinner time.”
“That’s A.M.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. It would be a challenge to get up that early. But the rest of her day would be free. And she could use the money. She arranged to meet Dixie that afternoon.
Wes would be furious. He had never allowed her to work, and she’d never wanted to. But she would do whatever it took to keep them afloat until Wes found a job. Which, she thought ruefully, would be a long while if he didn’t start looking. Besides, it wouldn’t be like work. She loved to cook.
Laurel stood in her walk-in closet pulling hangers off the poles, agonizing over what to wear for her interview. She laid several outfits on the bed and tried them on one by one. The black pantsuit? Too severe. The blue knit dress was too formal. Beige slacks? Not professional. As the pile of clothes dwindled, Laurel grew anxious. Nothing seemed right. Finally she settled on a navy skirt, pumps and her lavender cashmere twin-set.
She poked her head into the den to tell Wes she was leaving. He waved at her without looking away from the TV.
Following Dixie’s directions, Laurel drove to a barren industrial complex on the outskirts of town, an area she had always bypassed on her way to other destinations. She passed rows of steel warehouses and low-slung concrete buildings until she found Dixie’s address and pulled into a parking lot full of dusty pick-up trucks. Identical glass doors punctuated the tan stucco walls at regular intervals. The only distinguishing marks were address numbers painted on the glass. Dixie’s was the last door on her left. The room was gray with concrete floors and stainless steel counters along one wall. In the center was a steel worktable. In the glare of the fluorescent lights, the room looked more appropriate for performing autopsies than preparing food.
Dixie was a large woman with a broad face, her graying hair worn in a utilitarian cropped style. She wore black work pants, heavy boots, and a blue denim shirt rolled up to show her impressive biceps. The hand she proffered to Laurel was large and warm. She indicated Laurel should sit on one of the two metal stools that constituted the only furniture in the room. She sat on the other as she proceeded to describe the job.
Dixie drove her catering truck to auto body shops and construction sites, selling lunches and snacks to the workers. She bought her food from a warehouse market: bread, lunch meats, sliced cheese, potato, macaroni and three-bean salads, cole slaw, brownies and muffins. Laurel’s job would be to make sandwiches, scoop salads from bulk containers into Styrofoam cups and package muffins and brownies in plastic wrap. They’d stock the truck with the food and drinks before Dixie left on her rounds. The pay was minimum wage. Laurel’s spirits sank; this was not meal preparation as she knew it.
“What do you think?” Dixie asked.
“Well,” Laurel stammered, looking for a diplomatic way out.
“I’m in a real bind,” Dixie said. “ Try it for a week and see how it works out.”
One week. How bad could that be? It was easier to say yes than no. “Okay,” she said, reluctantly. “I’ll try.”
“Good. You can start tomorrow. By the way,” Dixie said, “dress casual.”
Heavy clouds blanketed the moon, and the bedroom was black as tar when the alarm rang at four o’clock. Laurel turned it off mid-ring and slipped out of bed. Wes opened his eyes, glanced at Laurel, then rolled on his side and pulled the pillow over his head. Laurel dressed in the dark, having laid out her new jeans and flannel shirt she’d bought after her interview the day before. There was no point leaving a note. Wes would probably still be asleep when she returned.
Justin had to be at school early for football practice and was usually out of the house before she got up. He wouldn’t even notice she was gone. By the time football season ended, her job would be long over.
Dawn was just beginning to break through the dark when Laurel reported for work. Except for Dixie’s catering van, the parking lot was empty. The only lights in the building came from Dixie’s workspace.
Dixie was already at work, making coffee and packing paper cups and plastic spoons into cardboard boxes. She stopped long enough to help Laurel gather her ingredients and set up an assembly line to make sandwiches. Laurel tied on the flowered apron she’d brought to protect her new clothes.
Laurel unwrapped a loaf of white bread, spread its slices out in a neat row, slathered them with mayonnaise, topped half with sliced lunch meat and a damp lettuce leaf and slapped another slice on top. Artificially pink bologna, fat-speckled salami, square ham and water-logged turkey. This was food? She reflexively wrinkled her nose. When the sandwiches were wrapped and labeled she helped Dixie scoop salads into the Styrofoam cups. As they worked, Dixie told her how she’d started the business.
Dixie had been a construction worker until she was injured on a job and could no longer do heavy work. She had used her disability compensation to purchase the catering truck and rent this kitchen space. She’d handled the business alone for the past year, but demand was growing to the point where she needed help. Laurel was just what she was looking for. “You’re doing fine,” Dixie said. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, Laurel could barely walk. She’d have to find better shoes for standing on concrete. Not work boots like Dixie’s, but something more than her thin-soled flats. Laurel did a quick calculation in her head. Her work ‘uniform’ would cost more than her first week’s wages. She had to work two weeks just to break even.
But two weeks was all she’d do. Justin’s football practices