It Wasn’t Enough (the first few chapters)

One day, the women were gone.

It was … an opportunity.

1

Timmy’s crying woke him up. Or maybe it was Tommy’s crying. Diane could always tell which one it was, but he never could. Even though there were two years between them.

“Diane!” he called out to her. With annoyance. She must already be up, he thought, because she wasn’t in the bed beside him. Though, since they’d had an argument the night before—correction, another argument—that didn’t surprise him. She was spending more nights in the boys’ room these days. He’d told her that’s why she couldn’t leave. Because of the boys. He hadn’t meant it to come out like they were holding her hostage. But it did. He sometimes wondered if that’s why he’d pushed her to have kids. To make sure she didn’t leave. Because, truthfully, he didn’t really—oh he loved them, of course, they were his kids, but …

“Diane!” he called out again, more loudly. The other one had started crying as well.

“Mommy …”

“Mommy!”

He groaned, then got up. It was time anyway. He glanced at the clock on the night table. Shit! Past time! No, no, no, he muttered as he raced to the shower, he couldn’t be late today, he was presenting his report to the Board at ten. He’d been working on it all week … Diane usually woke him—where the hell was she?

On his way to the bathroom, he saw that she wasn’t in the boys’ room. Timmy and Tommy were there, wailing away, but Diane was nowhere to be seen.

“Diane!” he yelled. Damn it! He went into the room, picked Timmy up out of his crib, and started jostling him, trying to make him stop crying.

“Shh, it’s okay, Daddy’s here …”

“Where’s Mommy?” Tommy whined. “I want Mommy!”

He carried Timmy out with him, Tommy close on his heels, glanced in the bathroom, then went downstairs. No Diane. Had she left after all? She would’ve gone to her parents’ place. He didn’t see a note, but he was sure there would be one. A long, scathing analysis of each of his many faults. A protracted description about how she was unhappy, unfulfilled, and—

At the moment, he had more pressing concerns. He’dhave to get the boys ready and take them to daycare.

He returned to the boys’ room, and started to—truthfully, he didn’t know their routine. He changed Timmy’s diaper. He helped Tommy go potty. He dressed them. He fed them. He dressed them again. It was all very difficult. Apparently he wasn’t doing anything right.

“Juice!” Timmy had insisted.

“Okay, here you go,” Andrew poured some juice into Timmy’s sippy cup and gave it to him. Timmy threw the cup onto the floor, and the juice seeped out.

“Timmy!” He yelled at him then reached for a tea towel to wipe it up. Timmy started crying. Again.

“Sorry, Daddy’s sorry,” he said, taking a cursory swipe at the spill, then lifting him out of his chair. Where the hell was Diane?

“Why isn’t Mommy here?” Tommy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

Andrew ignored him.

“When’s Mommy coming home?” Tommy tried a different approach. And then, for good measure, wandered over to the stove.

“I don’t know, Tommy. Please sit and eat your cereal,” Andrew said. He’d put Timmy back in his chair and was wrestling with the coffee maker.

“Don’t want to.” He ran his little fingers over the knobs. Andrew pulled him away and forced him into his chair. How was he supposed to take a shower let alone make a cup of coffee? He couldn’t turn his back on them for a minute …

“Eat!” He’d had enough. It was eight-thirty already.

“No!” Tommy threw his spoon onto the floor. And then his bowl of cereal.

By nine o’clock, Andrew was finally ready to leave the apartment. He’d managed a two-minute shower, but not a shave. And not a cup of coffee. He put Timmy into the stroller, grabbed his laptop case, then went out the door to the elevator, making sure that Tommy was following. He bumped the door in his rush, and Timmy started crying again. Down the hallway, into the elevator—no, Tommy refused to get in. He seemed to have developed a fear of elevators that Andrew knew nothing about. So Andrew pushed the button to keep the doors open, set his laptop case onto the elevator floor beside the stroller, then went back out to pick him up.

At the parking lot level, he managed to push the stroller out of the elevator without setting Tommy down. As soon as the doors closed, he realized he’d forgotten his laptop. Shit! He pressed the button immediately, but someone else must’ve beaten him to it. He waited anxiously, watching the floor indicators light up as the elevator ascended, stopped at the sixth floor, then started re-descending. It stopped again, at the lobby level—damn it, was some good Samaritan taking his laptop to the ‘Lost and Found’? Better that than stealing it, but— When the doors opened, he was relieved to see that it was exactly where he’d left it.

After putting the two boys into their car seats—almost a five-minute ordeal—Andrew drove out and into the street.

At the first stoplight, he called Sharon, his assistant, to let her know he was running late. There was no answer.

At the second stoplight, he called her again. Still no answer. Where the hell was she? He called general reception instead. Brittany or Brianna or whatever could get a message to Sharon. Again, no answer. What the hell? Was she too busy sitting there filing her nails? Actually, he thought a little shamefacedly, he’d never seen her sitting there filing her nails … He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat in disgust, then saw it slide off the seat and out of reach. Damn it!

“Where’s Mommy?” Tommy asked again.

“I don’t know!” Andrew said, again. “She went to Grammy’s.”

“Why?”

Andrew ignored him. Again.

He was surprised to see some sort of traffic jam in the daycare parking lot. Since he was so late, he’d expected an empty lot. He figured all the moms would have been there and gone already. But no, the lot was a mess, with cars haphazardly pulled up around the door. And all he saw were dads.

Andrew slapped the steering wheel in frustration as he pulled up behind the part that most looked like a line. He didn’t have time for this today! He had An Important Meeting to get to!

He watched with some confusion as men got out of their cars, stomped to the door, kids in tow, only to stomp back to their cars, gesticulating and shouting at other men. After a few minutes, during which the car in front of him hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t been able to move, Andrew got out to see what the trouble was.

“Fucking bitches musta gone on strike or something!” a man with a huge belly said. It occurred to Andrew, for the first time, to wonder whose kids his kids were playing with every day …

“Hey!” another one said sharply. “I’ll thank you for watching your language in front of my three-year old!” He put his arms protectively around a little red-haired boy.

“I’m jus’ sayin’—”

“I heard what you were jus’ sayin’,” the other man mocked, “and I doubt that’s true. I doubt the women even know each other.”

Was everyone’s wife gone? Is that what had happened? Or was the guy just talking about the daycare staff—

“Wouldn’t they though?” a bearded man spoke up. “Know each other? I mean, if it’s always our wives who drop off our kids …” he trailed off. A strike didn’t seem plausible, but …

“My wife has no reason to go on strike,” the watch-your-language man said. Smugly, Andrew thought. And, given that, probably incorrectly.

“Is there no one here?” Andrew asked then, walking up to try the door. As if he was the only one with brains enough to have thought to do that.

The door was locked. Of course.

Andrew stood around for another minute, trying to figure it out, but then decided there was no more information to be had, so he went back to his car. He’d have to take the boys to work with him.

He’d never realized until that day that whoever designed revolving doors must not have had kids.

Then, after struggling with yet another elevator, he saw that Sharon wasn’t at her desk. Damn it! He’d intended to ask her to get him a cup of coffee.

He started to detour to the small lunch room at the end of the hall, but then realized he couldn’t manage the stroller, his laptop case, and a cup of coffee.

So first he got the kids settled into his office, more or less. It was quarter to ten.

“Daddy’s going to get a cup of coffee,” he told Tommy. “Watch your brother, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

As he rushed out and down the hall, ignoring Timmy’s wail as he disappeared, he saw Matthew come out of the lunch room, coffee cup in hand. Great!

The coffee pot was empty.

“Hey!” he called after him.

“What?”

“You took the last cup!”

“Your point?”

“You should have started another pot!”

“Not my job,” he smiled.

“Well, whose job is it?” Andrew asked. “Who made the cup you have?”

Matthew shrugged.

“I did,” Kyle said, coming into the room. “Jackass!” he called after Matthew.

“Listen,” Andrew started, “could you make another pot? I’ve got my kids in my office—”

“Me too,” Kyle said curtly as he quickly tossed the used filter into the garbage and reached into the cupboard for another one. “We’re going to run out of these before the end of the day,” he noted. “Could you take care of that?”

“Okay,” Andrew had to say, as he watched Kyle measure coffee into the new filter then set it to percolate.

“Thanks,” he added, nodding to the gurgling pot. “Ten minutes?”

“Be gone then, come back in five,” he said grimly as he left.

Andrew returned to his office, relieved to see the boys still there and out of mischief. More or less. Timmy had stopped crying and was still in his stroller, but he was struggling with the straps. Tommy was spinning around in Andrew’s chair.

He lifted Tommy up out of the chair and set him onto the carpeted floor beside Timmy. As an afterthought, he tossed him a pencil and … a handful of his business cards. He’d find something better later … “Can you make some pictures? Daddy has to work.”

“Why?”

Andrew sat down to take a breath, glancing at his watch. Ten minutes. The meeting started in ten minutes. He opened his laptop and turned it on.

Richard, his boss, sauntered in. “Andrew, my boy …”

Andrew tensed. He hated when Richard called him that. He was thirty-five for god’s sake. And Richard wasn’t that much older. Fifty, tops.

“It seems there’s some sort of problem with the ladies, and I’m sure it’s nothing,” he waved his hand dismissively, “but we need you to answer the phones today.”

“What?” Andrew looked at him in disbelief. He was a Project Manager. He had a university degree for god’s sake. And he wanted him to answer phones? He couldn’t be serious.

“But I have the meeting with the Board—”

“Not to worry, I’ll take care of that for you, if you’ll just give me your report,” Richard said smoothly.

And let him take the credit? No way. But Richard was staring at him. Waiting. Apparently he had no choice.

“Okay, I’ll just get Sharon to—”

“Sharon’s not here. Weren’t you listening? None of the women are here.”

“What?” Andrew said again. But he’d intended to ask Sharon to look after his kids while he was at the meeting. She’d had kids of her own—no, maybe she hadn’t—now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing any pictures on her desk—in any case, she was no Brittany or Brianna, with whom he’d never leave his kids. Sharon was older and far more responsible; in fact, she had been the one who’d trained him when he first came to the company.

“None of the women are here?” Andrew stared out the window, trying to make sense of it.

“Your report?” Richard was waiting.

“Oh—”

“Andrew,” he said, with such exasperation, “what seems to be the problem?”

Seems to be. As if there really wasn’t any problem. Did he do that on purpose? My boy. Seems to be.

“Sharon has it. I mean, I have it,” he glanced at his laptop, “but she was going to format it and …” Make it all neat and tidy. She did that with all of his reports.

“We don’t have time for that now, just give me what you’ve got.”

Andrew opened the report. He was about to hit ‘Print’ but … it looked so … incompetent.

“Can’t we just reschedule?” he asked hopefully.

“No, the Board needs to see the numbers now,” Richard said impatiently. “Just print it and I’ll be on my way.”

Sighing, he pressed ‘Print’ and they both went to the printer. A dotted triangle was flashing. No report was forthcoming.

“Did you press ‘Print’?” Richard asked, patronizingly.

“Yes, I pressed ‘Print’!” Andrew said angrily.

“I don’t have time for this,” Richard said with disgust a moment later, as if the failing printer was Andrew’s fault. “Put the report on a flash drive, then get to the phones.” They’d been ringing since Richard had shown up. Since before he’d shown up, actually.

Andrew returned to his office and a few moments later reluctantly handed Richard a flash drive.

Richard turned and only then noticed Andrew’s kids in the corner.

“What are those?” he asked coldly.

Andrew stared at him. With a look of incomprehension on his face that could only be said to match that on his boss’s face.

“Kids,” he replied. “My kids, Timothy and Thomas.”

“And you brought them here to work with you because …”

“My wife—”

He waved his hand. Didn’t want to hear it.

“Make other arrangements,” was all he said. “And get to those phones.”

Again, Andrew just stared at him, as he sauntered out. With his report.

“And see to the printer, would you?” Richard called back.

If Andrew had had a slammable door, he would’ve slammed it after Richard. Instead, he simply picked up Timmy, mercifully quiet all this time, and put out his hand for Tommy.

There was no real place for the kids to settle in the reception area. It was open concept, with no corner. It wasn’t even carpeted. Andrew went back to his office for the stroller. There was no way Timmy would be content to sit in his stroller for very long, but what alternative did he have? Maybe he’d fall asleep. He lifted Tommy back into his desk chair and pulled it along behind him, awkwardly manoeuvring it around the counter.

Now what? He opened the top drawer of the receptionist’s desk, found a couple highlighters, then went to the printer for some blank sheets of paper.

“Can you make some more pictures while Daddy works?” he said to Tommy, thinking to clear a bit of space on the receptionist’s desk. But no, that looked impossible. He looked around, then grabbed a clipboard from the counter top, put the blank sheets of paper on top of what looked like a sign-in sheet, and handed it to Tommy.

“All set?”

Tommy nodded. Morosely.

“Will somebody please answer those goddamned phones?” Matthew stuck his head out his door as Andrew sat down at the desk.

He picked up the ringing phone.

“Hello?”

He heard nothing. The line was dead. No, it kept ringing. He pushed the flashing red button labelled ‘1’.

“Hello?”

“Hello— Is this Stride Enterprises?”

“Yes.” He’d just noticed that there was a column of such buttons, labelled 1-5. There were five lines? He had to answer five phones?

“May I speak to Mr. Belsen?”

“Um, just a minute.”

Andrew looked around for some sort of directory. There, pinned to the fabric of the reception divider right in front of him. When he reached out to run his finger down the list, it fluttered off the divider. Which, he realized, wasn’t really made for stuff to be pinned onto. Whose bright idea was that? It should be cork board or something. The list had fluttered between the divider and the desk, onto the floor. Damn it! He had to get onto his hands and knees and crawl under the desk to reach it. Tommy eagerly helped. And got his hands covered in something black. Timmy started crying. He wanted to get in on the fun.

Andrew crawled back out, put the list onto the desk, got Timmy out of his stroller, sat back down at the desk, and started bouncing him on his knee to make him stop crying. Jealous, Tommy tried to climb climbed onto Andrew’s lap as well.

“Damn it, Tommy!” He’d gotten the black stuff all over Andrew’s white shirt. Tommy started to tear up, and Andrew, immediately remorseful and not wanting two crying kids, pulled Tommy’s chair as close to him as possible and did make room on the desk for his drawing. “There. Better?” Tommy nodded. And wiped at his eyes.

Andrew scanned the list. Mr. Belsen was at extension 522. He pressed 5-2-2 on the phone. Nothing seemed to happen.

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Belsen?”

“No, just a minute, I’ll try again.”

He pressed the lit button to put the caller on hold. The light went off.

“Hello?”

He’d disconnected the call.

He put Timmy back into the stroller and started opening the desk drawers to look for some sort of operating manual. And maybe some tissue to wipe Tommy’s hands. No such luck. He was about to take him to the washroom when the phone rang again.

“Daddy, I wanna go home now.” Tommy had had enough of drawing pictures.

“We can’t go home yet, but soon okay?” Andrew said. “Draw another picture?”

“I don’t want to!” He threw a highlighter onto the floor.

“Tommy, please don’t do that, Daddy has to pick it up now!”

Tommy eagerly clambered out of the chair and started crawling under the desk again.

“No, don’t, Tommy, it’s all dirty! Come on back up onto the chair.”

The phone was still ringing. He picked up the receiver and hit the flashing red button.

“Hello?”

“You cut me off.”

“Sorry.”

“Is Mr. Belsen there or not?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to connect you.”

“I don’t have all day.”

“Hey, I’m doing my best, okay? Our receptionist isn’t here today and I’m filling in for her.”

“Well, how hard can it be?”

Andrew pressed a button marked ‘Hold’ and then pressed 5-2-2 again. Still nothing. He pressed the ‘Hold’ button again, hoping the person was still there. Nothing. He pressed the ‘RLS’ button. What did that stand for? Release? As in ‘release hold’? No, that didn’t make sense. If you had several people on hold, how did it know which one you wanted to release?

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Belsen?”

“No, I’m still trying—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” the caller hung up.

“Same to you!” Andrew shouted in frustration.

Maybe there was a number to press before the in-office extensions, like the number 9 you’d press to get an outside line. During the course of the next eight calls, he tried each one. None of them worked.

Then he noticed the ‘TR’ button. ‘Transfer’? Had to be.

Timmy started crying again. Andrew moved the stroller back and forth, back and forth, but it was awkward handling the receiver and buttons with just one hand. Tommy crawled out from under the desk and started pressing the buttons on the phone.

“Tommy!” Andrew shoved him away.

“I want Mommy!” Tommy started to cry as well. Understandably.

By the time Andrew had a minute to get a cup of coffee, the pot was empty again. Halfway through making another pot, the phone rang again. He ran out to answer it. And this time hit ‘TR’ before he dialed the extension number. Still didn’t work. Damn it! What the hell was he doing wrong? Why couldn’t he do this?

Five times he tried to deal with the printer. The first four times, the phone rang before he was halfway across the reception space. The fifth time, he’d opened it up—he’d figured out there were three panels that opened: one on the top, one on the front, and one on the back—but couldn’t see anything amiss. Anywhere.

Someone came to stand beside him, several loose pages in his hand. He was a little disconcerted to see Andrew at the machine, but then just said, “Could you make ten copies of this when you get it fixed?”

“What?”

“Ten copies. Thanks.” He set the pages on the table beside the printer. Slash copier.

At lunch time, he wanted—well, he wanted to go to lunch. He desperately needed a break. He was hungry. And he still hadn’t gotten a cup of coffee. Kyle was right. They’d run out of filters.

And he had to do something with the boys. He’d forgotten Timmy’s diaper bag. He hadn’t thought to bring any toys, any lunch … Of course, he hadn’t known he’d have to bring them in to work …

He popped his head into Simon’s office to ask if he’d watch the phones for him.

“Sorry, no can do,” he gestured to his own kid, about ten, sitting in the corner on the carpeted floor, playing videos games on his tablet. Then turned back to the “Hot and Hard” website he’d opened.

“Hey, Matthew,” Andrew stopped at the next open door. “Would you mind covering me at reception for a few minutes? I’ve got to get my kids some lunch—”

“Not my problem,” Matthew said, shaking his head. Why should he pay the price for someone else’s choice? It was a choice, after all. To have kids.

So Andrew just left. Let the phones ring. Let them annoy everyone on the floor. And if Richard found out, well, what was he supposed to do, skip lunch?

Yes, apparently. Richard told him as much when he returned. Two hours later.

“If Brittany had pulled that stunt, she’d be fired on the spot!” he thundered at him. Andrew didn’t care. One morning on the job and already he was beyond caring.

When he’d left for lunch, he’d driven around, looking in vain for a park, for somewhere he could let the boys run around for a bit, but nada. He passed twenty parking lots, but not one park.

He’d also passed a great many designer and boutique stores, but nothing— He finally spotted a convenience store tucked incongruously between a Gap and a Bath and Body Works, both of which looked closed. In fact, many of the stores had looked closed. Profits are going to take a nosedive, he noted idly, then wondered when the women would be coming back. Where had they gone? He hadn’t had any time to consider the larger problem, he realized just then, with surprise. Well, he’d been busy with all the little stuff. There was so much little stuff …

He quickly bought some diapers, some wipes, a few sandwiches, a couple juice boxes, and some cheap toys. He forgot to buy some coffee filters.

On the way back, he finally thought to call Diane’s parents’ place, just in case. No answer.

The two-hour lunch break had tired the boys enough for them to want to nap, and Andrew had thought to bring the car blanket with him when they returned to the office. He made a hidey hole for them under his desk, laying the blanket onto the floor and then the seat cushion from Sharon’s chair. He hoped it would suffice. Fortunately, it did. The boys were asleep in minutes. Amazingly, given the constant ringing of the phones.

By mid-afternoon, Andrew figured out how to transfer a call. By accident. He had to press ‘TR’ not only before he entered the extension numbers, but also after he’d done so. He’d happened to do that only because he was so harried, he’d forgotten whether he was coming or going.

So he was rather pleased with himself when the flashing red light of the call he’d put on hold in order to transfer it to Mr. Lavigne, at 4-3-3, stopped flashing and went solid. Line 3 rang immediately. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“I’m on a call!” Mr. Lavigne’s voice.

“Oh, excuse me—” Andrew quickly pressed the button for line 3.

“Hello?”

“Could you tell Jack Riley—”

“Hang on, I can transfer you—”

“No, I don’t want to talk with him. Just give him this message, darlin’, can you do that?”

Andrew stared at the receiver.

“You tell Jack that we’re good to go on the nineteenth at six, I’ve got reservations at the Spear at seven, and he’d better come prepared, you got that?”

Andrew searched for a notepad and pen. “The nineteenth at—what was that?”

At some point, it occurred to him that if after a transfer the light kept blinking, that meant no one was there. He assumed he was supposed to go back on the call and take a message. Right. Like he was going to do that. Like he could figure out how to do that. He tried once, but apparently disconnected the call. Just as well. One of the other lines rang.

When he got home at six-thirty, he was exhausted. More exhausted than he’d ever been at the end of the day. Timmy and Tommy were crying. Timmy needed a change, Tommy’s hands were still black, they were both hungry, they were both cranky— But all Andrew wanted to do was to take a long shower, then sit in front of the TV with a bottle of beer, was that too much to ask? Yes. It was, if you had a two-year-old and a four-year-old.

So he changed Timmy, he cleaned Tommy’s hands, then made dinner. Of a sort.

“Can we play dinosaurs now?” Tommy asked. “You promised.”

“Can’t you just play quietly for a while,” Andrew begged, “Daddy’s tired.”

“No, I want to play dinosaurs! DINOSAURS! DINOSAURS!” he screamed.

Andrew would have belted him one right then and there, but he was just … too damned tired.

It was eight-thirty by the time they were tucked in bed. One of them cried himself to sleep.

Andrew still had to make arrangements for his kids. He’d intended, at some point during the day, to search online for other daycares or a nanny or something, but he hadn’t managed to get to it. How could the whole day go by without—he hadn’t even checked his email. Not once. Usually, truth be told, he even had time to check the news sites. And do a crossword.

As he reached for his laptop, it suddenly dawned on him that it was Friday. He had the whole weekend to make arrangements. Dead tired, he went to bed. It was only nine o’clock.

2

Saturday morning and part of Saturday afternoon was taken up with the kids and chores. It was a mystery, and a surprise, how doing the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen, straightening the living room, cleaning the bathroom, and doing a couple loads of laundry could take five hours.

Actually it wasn’t. Not a mystery at any rate. Timmy and Tommy were constantly interrupting him. They were so needy. How did Diane get anything done? He’d already yelled at them twice. Then immediately regretted it. It wasn’t their fault. They missed their mom. They were just little kids. He got that.

The washer stopped working during the second load. When he’d lifted the lid at the end of the cycle to put the clothes into the dryer, he found them sitting in ten inches of water. He called the appliance repair place. Busy.

Then when he returned to the kitchen to properly clean up the juice spill from the previous day, he found Timmy and Tommy merrily putting the ants attracted by the sticky mess into their mouths. He screamed at them. Really screamed. Then locked himself in the washroom for a time-out.

When he called the appliance repair place an hour later, the line was still busy. No doubt someone had simply taken the phone off the hook.

Should he try to fix the washer himself? He stared at it. It was even more impenetrable than the printer had been. Groaning, he pulled it away from the wall and saw a panel at the bottom. Right. Take that off and he was likely to electrocute himself.

He’d try calling again in a couple hours.

Now, now he had to find someone to look after his kids. His first thought was that maybe there was someone in the building. But he didn’t know any of his neighbours. His social world was at work.

Was there an apartment directory? He could just start calling. He looked around the apartment and found nothing.

Okay, so he could go door-to-door … No, he’d have to take the kids with him. He sighed. At the moment, doing that … it would be just … too much work.

He decided to go online first. Maybe there was someone in this neighbourhood advertising babysitting services on Kijiji. He was delighted to discover several people doing just that. Katy, Debbie, Irene, Meghan, Melody …

Door-to-door it was. Tommy cowered away from him. It took fifteen minutes of cajoling and then, yes, more screaming, before he got him into presentable shape. No one would agree to look after a tear-streaked, dirty-faced, half-dressed kid. Timmy, thank god, had fallen asleep, so he just carefully transferred him from the couch into the stroller.

Andrew knocked on the first door. No answer. He knocked on the second door. No answer.

“I wanna go home,” Tommy whined.

No answers at the next three doors either.

“I wanna go home NOW!” Tommy threatened a tantrum. Andrew ignored him. He thought it best. No, truthfully, he didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

The sixth door was answered by someone who could barely make it to the door. Andrew apologized for having bothered him.

A man in his thirties answered the seventh door. He looked employed. It was worth a shot anyway.

“Hi, I’m Andrew, this is Timmy, and this is Tommy, and I’m wondering whether—whether you know anyone who is available to look after my kids during the day—”

“No, sorry,” the man said, closing his door.

Andrew sighed.

“I’ll look after your kids,” a large man lingering two doors down called out. “Got laid off today,” he explained, gruffly, as he unlocked his door.

“Oh—great!” Andrew said. “I mean, I’m sorry— You’re—”

“Ivan Keller. I’m a plumber. At P and E Plumbing?”

Andrew shook his head.

“Yeah, they told me business is down. Don’t understand it. Just because the women are gone doesn’t mean people don’t need their toilets unplugged, am I right?”

“You are.” Andrew knew why business was down. He was sure he cost Stride Enterprises several new clients on Friday.

“Okay, so, how much do you— How much would you charge?” Wait a minute. He didn’t know anything about this guy.

“Eighty-five.”

“Eighty-five a day?” Andrew thought quickly. He’d hoped for something closer to fifty a day. But he could probably swing eighty-five. Until— Were the women going to come back?

“No,” the guy laughed. “Eighty-five an hour.”

“An hour? But—”

“That’s how much I charge as a plumber. If your kids aren’t as important as your toilets and your sinks …” He stepped into his apartment.

“No, no, they are—” They’re more important. But eighty-five an hour? Andrew did the math. That worked out to $170,000 a year! He didn’t make that much. And even if he did, he needed something left over to pay for—everything else.

“You in?” the man was waiting.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t pay that …”

The man shrugged and went inside, and Andrew wandered distractedly back to his apartment.

He put Timmy in his crib. Tommy agreed to a nap.

The man was absolutely right though, Andrew thought as he sunk into the couch. Surely his kids, anyone’s kids, were more important than their toilets. So how was it that plumbers—and electricians, and auto mechanics, and probably tons of other guys—how was it they managed to charge so much? So much more? Because he and Diane sure weren’t paying $170,000 for daycare. True, the daycare looked after several kids, but even so, when all was said and done, he doubted that any of the daycare workers made anywhere near eighty-five an hour.

He tried calling the appliance place again. Still busy. No surprise. He knew it wasn’t because everyone’s washer had broken at the same time.

He started bailing the washer with one of the kids’ toy pails. Then he wrung out each item as best he could before tossing it into the dryer. Took forever.

And by the time forever had passed, it was time to make dinner.

Tommy didn’t want peanut butter and jam again. Nor did Andrew. He’d call out for pizza. Surely he deserved it. The line was busy.

“SHIT SHIT SHIT!!” he exploded as he threw the phone across the room. Nearly hitting Tommy and sending him wailing into his room again.

“Tommy, I wasn’t aiming at you, Daddy’s sorry …” He started to go after him, but then decided to just let him be.

He opened the fridge, saw that some vegetables in the crisper were about to go bad, figured he could manage pasta, put the veggies into the pot with the pasta and a can of pasta sauce.

Both Timmy and Tommy managed to get the sauce all over their tshirts. Of course they did.

Once the kids were in bed, Andrew popped open a bottle of beer and turned on the TV. He needed to pick up some more beer. When, though? Ordinarily, he’d just go now. But there was no way he could leave a two-year-old and a four-year-old home alone. Tomorrow maybe, on the way to work. No, tomorrow was Sunday. Monday then.

Idly watching Criminal, he realized they wouldn’t be able to make any more new episodes. Soon there’d be nothing but reruns. No, that’s not true, they could just replace the female characters with male characters. Truth be told, there weren’t that many, he noticed, relatively speaking, and they were always just minor characters. Mostly they were the victims of some horrible rape or murder. Or rape and murder. Sure, Grey’s Anatomy, Madam Secretary, and Ellen would be gone, but those were chick shows anyway.

He switched to the news. Yeah, that would just go back to the way it was when all the anchors had been men. He watched to see if there was anything about the situation. The anchor made a few mistakes. Had the teleprompter been run by a woman? Then there were some glitches about what was to come next. And then some dead air. Cut to a commercial break.

Oh that’s gonna change big time, he noted. Advertising.

The news resumed. The women were gone, no one knew how, no one knew why, no one knew for how long. Daycares and elementary schools were closed.

That’s it? That was all they had to say?

Guess so. The next item was something about the war in wherever, then there was the business report, which was always something about the economy and the stock market, then the weather report, and then sports. A full ten minutes like usual.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. There would be no more shots of gorgeous celebrities in the Entertainment segment of the news, but all of the other segments would go on like before. And why not? The news had seldom been about what women did.

3

Sunday was …awful. He almost went nuts being cooped up in the apartment with a two-year-old and four-year-old. For the second day in a row. But if he went out, he’d have to take them with him, and the mere thought of orchestrating that overwhelmed him.

Early in the morning—before Andrew was up, actually—Tommy had upended the toybox, then had chosen to play with both his police car and fire truck. They both had sirens. Loud sirens. Andrew groaned and rolled over. Then remembered he’d been the one to insist on buying for the boys that very police car and that very fire truck.

When Andrew insisted that playtime was over, Tommy refused to put his toys back in the toybox.

“Don’t you want breakfast?”

“NO!”

“Come on, you have to eat breakfast. Help Daddy put the toys back in the box.”

“NO!” That was Timmy. He’d finally gotten his hands on the fire truck.

“Yes, please, come on, no more fire truck, Daddy’ll read you a story.”

“Where Mommy? Mommy read!”

“Mommy’s gone.” As soon as he’d said it, he knew it was a mistake. “To Grammy’s.” Too late. Timmy’d started wailing.

Once he’d exhausted himself, Andrew revisited storytime. It did not go well. Timmy kept turning the pages; he didn’t care that Daddy hadn’t finished the sentence yet. And halfway through, Tommy got his fire truck out of the toybox again.

Andrew sighed, threw the book onto the coffee table, and turned on the TV. To the Kids’ Channel.

Monday he decided to call in sick. He thought he’d call HR first to confirm that he did indeed have five sick days left, but there was no answer. So he just went ahead and called Richard on his direct line. As he was dialing, he had a brilliant idea. He could telecommute! That would solve everything. Well, not everything, but—

“I could easily do my work from home,” Andrew told him, once he’d made the suggestion.

“As Project Manager, I’m sure you could,” Richard replied, “and I’d have no problem allowing you to do so one day a week, maybe even two, but we need our receptionist here. You understand.”

“Yes, but I’m not the receptionist.”

“You are now,” he chuckled.

Why was that funny, Andrew thought to wonder after he hung up.

He had to get out of the apartment. He had to get beer. He had to get groceries. And he had to take Timmy and Tommy with him.

It took the entire afternoon. Half an hour just to get out the door.

The beer store wasn’t bad. He left the boys in the car—thank god it wasn’t hot—and things were pretty much normal. Except, of course, for the longer than usual lines at the cashiers.

The grocery store, on the other hand, was hell. He put Timmy into the cart, fastening him securely in the baby seat, then told Tommy to hang on.

“Don’t let go!” he told him nervously. Why was the store so busy? And so loud?

He started down the first aisle. He hadn’t made a list; he thought he’d just cruise and get whatever he saw that he needed. Easier said than done. Everyone who was cruising just like him spent more time looking at the shelves than at where they were going. There were collisions. There were road blocks. No one said ‘Sorry’ and then moved their cart out of Andrew’s way. Instead, people seemed to intentionally block not only him, but the whole aisle, belligerently challenging someone, anyone, to say something. After all, they were entitled. They were men.

And, like Andrew, most of the men didn’t know where anything was. Their frustration was palpable; they’d clearly had to go down the same aisle several times, first to get this item, then again to get that item. Andrew had done the grocery shopping before with a list, a list Diane had prepared, and he just now realized that she’d prepared the list so the items on it were in the same order in which he’d come to them if he started in Aisle 1 and simply proceeded through to Aisle 8.

“Daddy, get this.”

“No, this cereal is better.”

“But I want this one!”

“Well, you’re not going to get it!”

Tommy let go of Andrew’s hand and started to get the box he wanted. Andrew yanked him back, and tugged him along, past the cereal.

They passed a kid in a cart kicking his father.

They passed another kid in a cart screaming so hard his face was red.

They passed a couple older kids knocking stuff off the shelves. Andrew wheeled carefully around several broken glass jars.

Timmy wanted to get out of the cart and walk. Like Tommy. Not on your life, Andrew thought.

When they turned into Aisle 4, they practically bumped into a father hitting his kid. Really hard. Andrew hadn’t separated the kid’s shriek from the high level of background noise, so the scene took him by surprise.

He tightened his grip on Tommy, then just said to the man, quietly, “Hey.” He was ready for “MIND YOUR OWN GODDAMNED BUSINESS!” He was ready to block Timmy or Tommy or both.

Instead, the man just looked at Andrew for a second, dazed. Then a switch seemed to flip on, or off, and he looked at his kid, aghast.

“Oh god, Davey, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed as he picked up his still screaming son and held him close. “Oh, god, Davey, I’m so sorry …” The two of them sagged to the floor in a mutual meltdown.

By the time Andrew made it through all of the aisles, his cart was full. He double-checked, thinking through the day: coffee, bread, jam, peanut butter, milk, cereal, juice; bread again, cold cuts, tuna, mayonnaise, peanut butter, jam, fruit; frozen dinners, meat, veggies, rice, pasta, pasta sauce; potato chips, cookies. And—he thought of these things only when he saw them—toilet paper, diapers, wipes, paper towels, laundry detergent, soap, shampoo, toothpaste. He also decided to buy a bunch of ready-made stuff at the hot and cold deli counters.

“Anything else, Tommy?” Andrew asked him. Actually, he might know. He always went with Diane. It was an adventure. In a way that today’s trip was not. Apparently. In any case, he didn’t want get home and then find out that he forgot something the kids considered essential.

“Yogurt,” Tommy said, in a small voice. “Mommy always buys yogurt.”

Right. But she was the only one who ate it. Nevertheless, it if helped maintain some sense of normalcy … They went back to the dairy section and got some yogurt. And then to the freezer aisle for ice cream. The yogurt had reminded him.

Andrew had noticed, pretending not to, that the line-ups at the only two check-outs that were open went halfway down the closest aisle. It had been difficult to get anything from those aisles and almost impossible to get through to the next aisle. Some men left a gap, but then some asshole always wheeled in to fill it. Andrew had seen the same thing happen on the road. A thoughtful driver would leave a gap so oncoming cars could continue to turn left, or cars coming out of a parking lot could get through, but then there were drivers who would move up and close the gap. ME next! His father was like that. Out on the highway, he’d get positively enraged when someone passed him. As if it mattered how many people were ahead of him. As if driving anywhere, everywhere, was a race. He’d actually timed how long it took to get to the family cottage each weekend. That’s what happens, Andrew thought, when you see life as a competition.

“Jeezus,” Andrew muttered, once he’d manoeuvred into one of the long check-out lines.

“Can’t we go now?” Tommy asked.

“No, we have to pay first,” Andrew said. “Soon though.”

Soon though, my ass, he thought.

He tried to initiate an “I Spy” game with Tommy. No, he just wanted to go home. After ten minutes, Timmy started to fuss. Don’t start crying, Andrew pleaded. Please don’t start crying.

Half an hour later, they were at the front of the line. And Andrew saw the problem. My god, but the man was slow. It reminded Andrew of how men crossed the street in front of his car. The women always hurried, as if apologizing for making you stop and wait. The men never did. They sauntered across, taking great delight in making you wait. And that seemed to be what the checkout guy was doing. No way he was going to hurry. Not for anyone. He took his bloody time reaching for each item, scanning it, then setting it on the other side.

And then when there wasn’t any more room, he’d pack. Instead of packing as he went.

It was painful to watch. He positioned the packages first here, then there, shifting them, repositioning them. And they say men are the ones with the spatial abilities.

When he started to put the heavy carton of ice cream on top of a bag of loose tomatoes, Andrew spoke up. “Wait, that’ll crush the tomatoes.”

The guy glowered at him. And took the tomatoes out. Then he started to put the hot deli container of scalloped potatoes beside the ice cream.

“It would be better if you put all the cold stuff in one bag, and all the hot in another,” Andrew suggested the obvious.

“You wanna pack it yourself?” the man challenged. It was a far cry from the smiling ‘Sorry’ Andrew normally would have gotten. The ‘And how are you today?’ had been completely absent.

“It might be better if I did,” Andrew said, and started to do so.

The man walked away then, apparently to have a smoke break.

Unfuckingbelievable, Andrew thought. He had to wait for the guy to return so he could pay for his groceries. No surprise that after just two or three minutes of no forward motion, guys several spots down from him starting banging their carts into those of the guys in front of them. Tommy whined. Timmy started crying.

The manager in the office above looked out his little window and decided he’d better hire a security firm. It had actually been suggested by head office the day before, but he’d scoffed at the idea.

As soon as Andrew paid, he went straight to that manager’s office to complain. The guy should be fired. Seriously. But no, the manager had no intention of firing him.

Andrew thought then of Richard’s comment about how he would have fired Brittany on the spot if she’d taken a two hour lunch. He was sure that if a woman had done what this guy had just done, she also would have been fired on the spot. It’s true, he thought, with amazement. Men doget away with a lot more shit than women. Women are held to higher standards. Diane had always said so, but he had always denied it. How else could you explain the overwhelming number of men in middle and upper management positions? If what she’d said was right, wouldn’t women be getting promoted over men? It didn’t make sense.

Part way home, he realized he’d have to call in sick tomorrow as well. He hadn’t had any time to make other arrangements, and by the time he unpacked and then—god, how was he going to get the groceries up into the apartment? Was he supposed to carry one bag at a time in his left hand, pushing Timmy’s stroller with the other, making sure Tommy tagged along? It would take ten trips! Tommy would rebel, and rightly so, after just two trips. Could he leave him in the apartment by himself? No, he’d surely start wailing as soon as he closed and locked the door behind him.

Maybe—ah! The shopping carts he saw in the parking garage every now and then! He’d always wondered why someone would take a shopping cart from a grocery store. Now he knew. Still he wondered—would they have wheeled the thing all the way from the store along the sidewalk? Or had some soccer mom with a minivan made a covert run one midnight in order to relocate a few carts for everyone’s use?

On his fifth trip—unfortunately, there weren’t any carts in the parking garage that day—did the grocery stores come and retrieve them every now and then?—it suddenly occurred to him that he could just call their babysitter! Duh! They paid her only $10/hour. He wondered now, just now, how much people paid boys to cut their grass. He thought it was about $20/hour. Well, that wasn’t fair, was it. Unless our lawns are also more important than our kids.

But if he offered $20/hour—which he admitted he should, at the very least—that would … geez, that would be about half his salary. Could that be right? Yes. It would also be more than a year’s university tuition for each of the boys. Well, when you thought about it, what universities provided for that money—a couple classes, access to a library and a gym—was nothing compared to looking after a kid for eight solid hours a day, attending to its physical, emotional, cognitive, and social development. So, he supposed $20/hour was—

No, he mentally slapped his forehead, he couldn’t just call their babysitter. Alicia would be gone as well. Okay, maybe he could find another high school student, a boy—if the schools were closed— Were they?

Three hours later—it took that long to get all the groceries into the apartment, then put them away, then make supper, then get the kids to bed—he went online again. Apparently most of the elementary schools were closed, but the high schools were still open.

4

Though ‘open’ wasn’t quite right, since, at least at Central High School, the entrance was guarded and incoming students were frisked. Metal detectors were on order.

“What the hell …” Mr. Archer had murmured as he made his way through the halls to the staff room on that Friday morning. The party atmosphere was unmistakeable. And, for the moment, puzzling.

Eventually he noticed that he wasn’t seeing any girls. Then he noticed that he wasn’t seeing any women. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any girls or women on his way in either …

“I tell you it’s not going to work!” Mr. Laskey, one of the science teachers, was pacing and wringing his hands. “Best thing to do is close down altogether.”

“We can’t close down,” replied Mr. Nelson, the principal, in a tone that indicated that he thought Mr. Laskey was being a little hysterical about the situation. “It’s our responsibility to educate these boys!”

“But there are only, what, fifteen of us?” he looked around the room to count. Ten. The other five must be— Oh god. Several of the ten hustled out of the room, quickly.

“Come on!” one of them said to Mr. Archer as they rushed by him.

Mr. Laskey was right about the math. Female teachers outnumbered male teachers two to one at the high schools. So at nine o’clock, that Friday, two-thirds of the high school classrooms, and halls, world-wide, were ‘unsupervised’.

By nine-thirty, at Central High School, Mr. Nelson was on the public address system with a revised timetable that merged classes into an unspeakable horror.

Mr. Yoshi found himself with over a hundred grade twelve Math students in the auditorium. Next period, he’d have the same number of grade eleven Math students. In the afternoon, he’d take the grade ten and nine Math students. He arranged the students in clusters according to where they were in the text, intending to circulate and teach as he went, rather than attempt any sort of lesson per se, but maintaining discipline had been a challenge with thirty students in the room; doing so with over a hundred was impossible. Yes, there was a roster of teacher’s aides available to teachers who needed extra help, but well over ninety percent of teacher’s aides were women. And so no longer available.

Somehow reading, writing—indeed learning—had become a girl thing. Perhaps because they were typically better at it. Boys acted like high school was all about hooking up and competing. (Given that attitude, and the classroom atmosphere it must have created, and the demands it must have made on the teachers, it’s a wonder the girls ever learned anything. Let alone as much as they might have otherwise. No wonder there had been so many advocates of segregated schools.) Now that hooking up wasn’t an option, it was full-out competition.

So what started happening that Friday was really no different than what had been happening for quite some time; it was just exacerbated by the situation.

The constant shouting—real men spoke up—made it difficult to hear even the students right next to him. The relentless posturing tore his attention away from the task at hand, to make sure it remainedposturing, so he was seldom able to finish even the shortest of explanations without interruption. And when it escalated beyond posturing? Orders to report to the principal’s office were laughed at. Threats of detention were laughed at. And attempts to stop a fight single-handedly were suicidal.

Mr. Corming had a schedule similar to Mr. Yoshi’s, but for English, in reverse order, in the cafeteria. He figured it was do-able: he’d teach for half the period, then have silent reading for the remainder. But the first ten students he’d sent to the library to get a book came back—well, seven of them came back—with news that the library was locked. Plan B had been turning English into Home Ec—they’d all be hungry in a couple hours. And of course the cafeteria staff …

“Let’s take a look and see if we can prepare a killer lunch, shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s all turn into cafeteria ladies, shall we?” Lewis mocked. “Where are the hairnets, I want a pink one!”

This, from the student most likely to spend his life saying “Would you like fries with that?” In a prison cafeteria.

Once the food fight was over, no one acted on Mr. Corming’s suggestion that they clean up—because that’s the janitor’s job, right?—except for a few of the boys, who figured out that the task provided safety.

One of these boys was James, a smaller than average grade niner, who had been struggling, every day, to get an education. He had been so excited about starting high school, where the real learning happened. In particular, he had been looking forward to studying poetry—realpoetry, not the stupid rhyming stuff they’d done in grades seven and eight. In fact, he was going to be a poet. He’d already started writing stuff, which he kept in a spiral notebook that he kept with him at all times. Because if his father ever discovered it, he’d make fun of it so much he wouldn’t ever want to write another poem.

Plus, the high school had Music, which he’d looked forward to taking. When they got to choose instruments, he thought he’d choose the flute. It was small enough to fit into his knapsack.

But high school was nothing like he’d imagined. The other boys, almost every single one of them, was like his father. They’d mock and jeer. That he could take. Sort of. That is to say, he was used to it.

But when the verbal taunts didn’t have their intended effect, the other boys turned to physical taunts. They’d shove him and push him. What did they want? James kept ignoring them, he kept walking away from them, he kept trying to avoid them in the first place, but—what did they want?? Surely they knew he couldn’t fight back. If he even tried, they’d beat him to a pulp.

Did they just want to see him cry? He’d obliged them on a few occasions, much to his embarrassment, but the aggression didn’t stop. In fact, it got worse.

Unsatisfied with shoves and pushes, they’d started hitting. At first, not very hard, but again, when that didn’t have the desired result—what did they want??—they started hitting him harder.

So even before that Friday, James had been spending most of his time being on the alert for the worst ones and staying out of sight. It often made him late for class. And then the teachers, who until now had been his—okay, maybe not his protectors, but surely at least his allies—started thinking less of him. It hurt. He’d explained to Ms. Webster why he was so often late for her English class, and she’d believed him, she’d understood, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

None of the teachers could, it seemed. At first, some of them tried to stop the fights, but then a knife was pulled on one of them. Mr. Enright ended up in the hospital.

Shortly after that, the teachers stopped sending the troublemakers—an inadequate word if there ever was one—to the principal’s office, for fear of retaliation.

The day the students got their first term report cards, Tyler had screamed into Ms. Webster’s face that she was a FUCKING CUNT! He’d received a failing grade. What had he expected? He hadn’t done any of the work. But James would understand if Tyler ended up passing the course. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but—

He’d heard that the teachers—mostly the female teachers—had asked the principal why he didn’t simply expel any student who was physically violent or even verbally abusive. Apparently, Mr. Nelson had laughed, saying that that would eliminate almost half the student body and besides, they all had a right to an education.

The gym was turned into a huge Study Hall. Right. Study. Mr. Berini was hoarse within an hour. And tired of breaking up the fights that seemed to erupt every ten minutes.

The gym classes were taken outside into the field, where Mr. Delven organized a sort of round robin soccer tournament. And pretended not to see the students who simply left. Good riddance to many. Good luck to a few.

Mr. Ellis filled in for the missing vice-principal, Mr. MacKenzie supervised the halls, and the remaining eight teachers were assigned to classrooms, every one of which was overflowing. With male adolescents.

By noon, AV had signed out every single television monitor and its entire supply of movies. Though many kids were just watching whatever they wanted on their laptops and tablets. Watching? No, playing video games. Rehearsing theft, arson, assault, and homicide.

Mr. Tunney had fifty-five students—correction, fifty-five male adolescents—in his chemistry room. He double-checked that the gas to the Bunsen burners was turned off, that the cabinets containing beakers and assorted equipment were locked, and that the room containing the chemicals he used for the year was locked. When he had a moment, he’d suggest to Mr. Nelson that chemistry no longer be offered at Central High.

“Hey, out of my seat!” A boy he didn’t know, but knew of, and was certain wasn’t enrolled in any chemistry course, yanked a younger kid off a stool. And threw him against the beaker cabinet. Fortunately, the glass door held. Which made the boy angry enough to just smash it.

“Hey!” Mr. Tunney called out. But was, of course, ignored. “I want you to report to the principal’s office! NOW!” Completely ignored.

He watched helplessly as the boy selected a large shard of glass. And smiled.

Students started running out of the room.

“For later,” the boy simply said. Then sauntered out.

Mr. Tunney called the office immediately. No answer. He cautiously stuck his head out his door and looked to the left and then to the right. No bleeding kid on the floor. He made a note to check all the lockers before he left that day. It would be possible for a grade niner to die overnight in one of them. Especially if he’d been slashed.

Which was quite likely because at any given moment, not just every ten minutes, there was at least one fight happening somewhere in the school. It was appalling, really. And would have been an embarrassment had it not been shrugged off as ‘boys will be boys’. Hard to see how that attitude persisted when the weapons started escalating, in both number and lethality.

In the bedlam of that first morning, twenty-six kids were seriously injured. And, of course, there was no one in the nurse’s office.

By the end of the day, Mr. Nelson called the police station and asked if he could hire a few police officers to be teacher’s aides. That was really what they needed anyway: not pedagogical expertise, but … uniformed men with guns. The threat of even more violence. Oh god, he’d moaned to himself, where had they gone wrong?

“While I appreciate your concerns,” the Chief of Police had said, when Mr. Nelson had finally gotten through, “we simply don’t have any officers to spare.”

So Mr. Nelson spent Saturday calling private security companies, then, eventually, just going around in person to the addresses listed in the phone book. He waited in a relatively short line at one such company and was able to hire four men: he put two at the main entrance, locking the other doors, and told the other two to circulate, one per floor, and assist as needed. It wasn’t enough.

By the end of the week, he would give up the charade. The high schools had become, and perhaps always had been, just a holding tank for male adolescents.

On Tuesday, James made two mistakes.

“Who knows what density is?” Mr. Archer had asked. Shouted, actually, to be heard over the ongoing rumble in the class. There were fifty students crammed into the room, and since there were only thirty-five chairs, latecomers had to stand. No, that wasn’t quite true. Even if you got there early enough to get a chair, someone coming in later could simply take it away from you. James was, of course, one of those standing at the side of the room.

As soon as Mr. Archer asked the question, he raised his hand. Because he knew the answer.

His second mistake was forgetting to peek around the corner later before he turned from one hallway into the next on the way to his second class. He’d been thinking about what density was when it didn’t refer to individual things, like people per square yard. When it referred to something like, say, iron, was density a matter of how much there was by weight or how much there was by volume? It had to be by volume, because that’s what ‘by square yard’ essentially meant, right?

As soon as he saw them, he turned and ran, but they were faster. At least, one of them was faster, and that one just hung onto him until the others arrived.

He curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head and waited for them to be done. But what hurt the most was that they upended his knapsack, found the spiral notebook, and burned it. Right there in front of him.

Andrew found James huddled on the floor at the end of the hallway Tuesday afternoon. He’d opened the door to let Tommy run up and down the hall a couple times. It was so much easier than making a trip to the park. Which he’d already done. Twice.

“Hey, are you okay?” He crouched beside him.

James looked up, tears in his eyes. He had a bloody lip and a black eye, and the way he was holding himself suggested he might also have a broken rib or two. His clothing was torn, and his knapsack—Andrew remembered seeing the kid always with a knapsack full of books—his knapsack was gone. Along with, presumably, the key to his apartment. Hence, the huddling on the floor at the end of the hallway.

“Do you want to come wait in my apartment?” Andrew asked. He’d left Timmy there. And had told Tommy to go back inside as soon as he saw—

Just then, James’ father came through the door from the stairwell.

“Oh jeezus, what the hell happened to you?” He stared at the boy, clearly disgusted. “You let them beat you up again?”

Again? Andrew was shocked.

“Didn’t I teach you how to fight back? D’ya want me to take a few swings at you again?”

Then appalled.

“No,” James said in a small voice. “Because I’m not going back.”

“Like hell you’re not! I won’t have you sittin’ around here all day like a little princess when I’m out workin’ my butt off—”

“I’ll hire him,” Andrew spoke quickly. James looked at him with hope. With desperation. With ‘thank you’ screaming from his eyes.

“Yeah? To do what? What the fuck do you think he’s any good at?”

“I need someone to look after my kids,” Andrew knew it would invite more ridicule, but— “I can’t take them to work with me, and—”

The man broke into laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect. That’s a perfect job for a little sissy boy.”

James got to his feet as quickly as he could, wincing.

“When would you like me to start, Mr.—”

“Fraser. And you’re …”

“James. Abbot.”

“Hi, James,” Andrew reached out to shake James’ hand. “Would you like to start now? You can come over and meet them, I’ve got—”

“Sure!” James said all too eagerly. “That’s okay?” He turned to his dad.

“Yeah, go, what the hell do I care,” the man opened the door to his apartment and went inside.

So James followed Andrew back to his apartment to meet the boys. When he found out how much Andrew was going to pay him, he said he’d do the cooking and cleaning as well. He said he’d do anything, everything, whatever Andrew needed him to do.

“Okay, that’s great,” Andrew said, trying not to show how overjoyed he was. The boy was in pain. “But first, I think we should get those ribs checked out. I’ll drive you to Emerg, okay? An x-ray should tell us whether there’s anything broken …”

(free download of complete novella at pegtittle.com)