Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) Read Online Free
Author: Jamie Sheffield
walking me through the basics of ‘Suits 101’ during one of his teaching sessions. I had grown up one of a few dozen children ( the kids varied from year to year, as parents, and their children, came and went from the cooperative/collective ) who were homeschooled by a group of friends/parents frustrated with a broken public school system. I remember every word that every one of them said in every session, even the boring/stupid/inaccurate ones, which Lars’ had not been.
The smarmy smile and stiff handshake that I could see the young man preparing to deliver took me back to a nested subset of things that I didn’t/don’t like about NYC. He reached us, and extended a hand in my direction, “Anthony Kistler, thanks for coming today.” It was delivered with a careful single up and down pump of the hand, and a smile that never reached his eyes; he was assuming the role of gatekeeper for the old lady, and was obviously ( it had to be if I had noticed it ) not excited about us/me being there … we were out of profile, he didn’t know which slot to file us in, and it made him uncomfortable. I had spent too much of my youth on the wrong side of various/numerous doors, forced to wait ( and waste time, which I hate ), thanks to people like Anthony, for the people with whom the buck stopped.
Although his shake was firm, the hand delivering it was slack and soft; mine is covered in callouses and worn down by work and winters to bone and knots of muscle … we were both aware of the differences, it made him adjust his tie. I had endured many such handshakes in the days and weeks after my parents were killed … suits trying to manage or control the newly acquired assets of a kid whom they didn’t/couldn’t understand. It offended them on some level … my life and lack of ambition ( in any traditional sense ), and the choices I made with what they deemed a sum of money somewhere between ‘comfortable’ and ‘sizable.’ He had done nothing wrong or offensive in the seconds that I had known him, but I took an immediate and irrational dislike to him ( which I imagined would interest Barry and Meg, who both enjoy analyzing me, albeit for different reasons, and certainly from different perspectives ).
“Hi, Anthony,” Dorothy finally said, after I failed to say anything in a socially acceptable amount of time. “We’re here to see Kitty. She should be expecting us.” Dorothy and Anthony, and most people, don’t like silence in social situations, and often fill them with useful additions/admissions or gestures, which is why I often wait to see what happens.
“Yes,” Anthony pivoted quickly, and shook Dot’s hand, “come inside. Everyone else is off at church.” Anthony turned and led us up and into the building, out of the bright morning and into the perpetual half-light of the camp’s great room. We walked past a Stickley dining table that could have seated 40 ( but was set for a measly seven, plus a high-chair, all clustered at one end ), and followed him through a swinging door, into the kitchen and pantry area ( I passed a restaurant-sized fridge/oven/stove and stacks of twenty different sizes of plates and bowls ). Anthony pushed open a door and took us back into a surprisingly modern bedroom suite, which looked as though a 21st century hospital had been grafted onto this 19th century camp.
“It used to be Cook’s room, back when I was a girl; that and some storage space.” The tiny voice came from a tiny wrinkled face, white against a sea of white linens and blankets in a huge bed; my eye had very nearly skipped over her when we entered. “My grandmother would be shocked at my use of this space. Back in her day, no person of note or bearing would be housed this close to the main lodge, or so far from the lake; if I were further though, I wouldn’t see my children, or grandchildren, or my first great-granddaughter, Deirdre, who I met for the first time yesterday.” This last piece of information was
The smarmy smile and stiff handshake that I could see the young man preparing to deliver took me back to a nested subset of things that I didn’t/don’t like about NYC. He reached us, and extended a hand in my direction, “Anthony Kistler, thanks for coming today.” It was delivered with a careful single up and down pump of the hand, and a smile that never reached his eyes; he was assuming the role of gatekeeper for the old lady, and was obviously ( it had to be if I had noticed it ) not excited about us/me being there … we were out of profile, he didn’t know which slot to file us in, and it made him uncomfortable. I had spent too much of my youth on the wrong side of various/numerous doors, forced to wait ( and waste time, which I hate ), thanks to people like Anthony, for the people with whom the buck stopped.
Although his shake was firm, the hand delivering it was slack and soft; mine is covered in callouses and worn down by work and winters to bone and knots of muscle … we were both aware of the differences, it made him adjust his tie. I had endured many such handshakes in the days and weeks after my parents were killed … suits trying to manage or control the newly acquired assets of a kid whom they didn’t/couldn’t understand. It offended them on some level … my life and lack of ambition ( in any traditional sense ), and the choices I made with what they deemed a sum of money somewhere between ‘comfortable’ and ‘sizable.’ He had done nothing wrong or offensive in the seconds that I had known him, but I took an immediate and irrational dislike to him ( which I imagined would interest Barry and Meg, who both enjoy analyzing me, albeit for different reasons, and certainly from different perspectives ).
“Hi, Anthony,” Dorothy finally said, after I failed to say anything in a socially acceptable amount of time. “We’re here to see Kitty. She should be expecting us.” Dorothy and Anthony, and most people, don’t like silence in social situations, and often fill them with useful additions/admissions or gestures, which is why I often wait to see what happens.
“Yes,” Anthony pivoted quickly, and shook Dot’s hand, “come inside. Everyone else is off at church.” Anthony turned and led us up and into the building, out of the bright morning and into the perpetual half-light of the camp’s great room. We walked past a Stickley dining table that could have seated 40 ( but was set for a measly seven, plus a high-chair, all clustered at one end ), and followed him through a swinging door, into the kitchen and pantry area ( I passed a restaurant-sized fridge/oven/stove and stacks of twenty different sizes of plates and bowls ). Anthony pushed open a door and took us back into a surprisingly modern bedroom suite, which looked as though a 21st century hospital had been grafted onto this 19th century camp.
“It used to be Cook’s room, back when I was a girl; that and some storage space.” The tiny voice came from a tiny wrinkled face, white against a sea of white linens and blankets in a huge bed; my eye had very nearly skipped over her when we entered. “My grandmother would be shocked at my use of this space. Back in her day, no person of note or bearing would be housed this close to the main lodge, or so far from the lake; if I were further though, I wouldn’t see my children, or grandchildren, or my first great-granddaughter, Deirdre, who I met for the first time yesterday.” This last piece of information was
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