The Caretaker

1.

Robert arranged for the interview.

Max, it’s exactly what you need right now, he promised, when he called about it.  It’s perfect.

I wasn’t convinced it was, but he was certain, saying it was just what I needed to get me through winter, which was already difficult enough on its own, even for people not in my predicament.

"My predicament? I said.  And what is my predicament?"

Max, I don’t have time to rehash all that, he said, but with what you’ve got hanging over your head it’s just...it’s just better you have something to keep you busy.

What’s the supposed to mean?

Nothing, my boy, nothing, he said.  It’s just – look, you and I both know there are more suicides in winter than any other time of the year.

What are you saying?

I’m saying inactivity is not your friend.

Wait, I said, "are you seriously suggesting I’m going to kill myself?"

He laughed, as if it was all a joke, but it was hollow, a joyless laugh.

All I’m saying is people in your position have been known to do extreme things, he said, and you can never be too careful.

Robert waited a moment, expecting me to show some gratitude, but I did not.

The interview? I prompted, instead.

"Oh, yes – the interview, he said, then proceeded to give me the address.  I wrote it on the back of an envelope – another overdue notice from my student loans.  And you can thank me now if you like, kid."

"Thank you? I said.  Why would I thank you?"

Because if you don’t, he said, I’m going to think you don’t appreciate what I’ve done for you.

"And what have you done for me?"

Is it really necessary to...

I’ll tell you what you’ve done, I said.  "First, you call up and talk as if you believe I’m going to kill myself, which I’m not going to do.  Then you give me an address for a job interview that’s all the way up in Traverse City.  And you want me to thank you for that?"

Of course I do, he said.  "Traverse City is lovely in winter."

I’m sure it is, I said, but it’s two hours away.

Beauty requires sacrifice, Robert said.

Maybe it does, I said, but what in the hell kind of job is there going to be up there with all the rich assholes, right-wing gun-nuts and trolls running around everywhere?

Obviously, Robert said, the kind of job you get from a rich asshole – gun nuts tend not to have employees.  Trolls, either.

Great, I said.  "But you’d think since I lumped them all into one group you might’ve understood I’m not partial to any of them."

I understood, he said.  But people in your position can’t really be choose, now can they?

Don’t talk to me about my position, Robert.

"All I’m saying is meet the man.  Go up and meet him and at talk to him and if you don’t like him, or what he’s got to say, then turn it down, he said.  But at least give it a chance."

I don’t...

But you don’t really have any other options, he said.  Do you?

I did not and didn’t especially care to be reminded of it, either, since it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d easily forget.

Take my word for it, kid, this is one rich asshole you want to meet, Robert said.  This one is different.

I’m sure it is.

Come on, Max, don’t say it like that – when have I ever steered you wrong?

Is that a serious question?

Yes it is, he said.  Because if you ignore that one time, I think you’d see I always treated you fairly and honestly.

"Fairly?

But let me ask you this before you say something you’ll regret later, he said.  You’ve heard the name Wyatt Greenberg before, yes?

I had, but the last I knew, he was dead.

"He is dead, Robert said, but his son isn’t."

Are you saying...?

Yes, Robert said.  "That’s exactly what I’m saying."

I shook my head.

So what, the kids not dead, I said.  But exactly what kind of work does that mean he has for me?

Can’t rightly say, Robert said.  "Not exactly, anyway.  But would it matter if I did?"

It might.

Well, meet him and see for yourself, all right? he said.  And just keep this in mind – I called in a lot of favors for this, so I’m counting on you.

I never...

"A lot of favors, he repeated.  So don’t fuck this up."

I considered refusing the interview, just throwing away the number and forgetting about it all, but he was right, I had no other option.  So finally I said I would meet him, though would promise little else.

I never expected you would, Robert said.

And just so you know, I said, if I have to drive two hours into the middle of nowhere to meet him, it better be a hell of a job waiting for me.

I’m sure it will be, Robert said.  I’m sure it will be.

* * * * *

Even after I agreed to the interview, Robert remained guarded about the details, only insisting I should trust him.

Of all people on earth, I said, "you’re the last person I should trust."

That’s harsh, he said.

And true, I said.

Though guarded on the details, my interest was irrevocably piqued and so a week from Friday I drove two hours north of the city, out into the more sparsely-populated reaches of northern-lower Michigan, following the carefully detailed directions Jill, my silky-voiced GPS tour-guide relayed.  And even though I doubted she would lead me on the right path, especially as the houses and all other signs of life gradually fell away the further north I went, eventually I came to the end of what was certainly the least-travelled road in the entire lower peninsula of Michigan and found myself staring up at a massive wrought iron gate guarding a lonely driveway.

You made it, a much-younger-than-I-expected Greenberg said, meeting me at the gate after I thumbed the button on the callbox.  You must be Max?

"You’re Mr. Greenberg?"

I am, he said.  You seem surprised.

"You’re younger than I thought you’d be."

"Only in appearance, he said, then produced a key for the gate, sliding it open by hand.  The blacktop beyond disappeared over a low hill and through a thin line of trees.  You can park next to the house.  I’ll meet you there."

Did you...did you want me to drive you, I said, when he pointed the way, Mr. Greenberg?

Please, call me Alex, he said.  Mr. Greenberg is the drunken son-of-a-bitch who provided half my DNA.

Alex?

That’s right, he said, then pointed up the drive again.  Now, as I said, you go on up and I’ll meet you by the house.

You’re sure?

He was and I did go ahead, through the trees and over the shallow hill, where I emerged to see the house for the first time.  At once, I was surprised by its modesty – it was almost small – but even if modest, the house still loomed as a ridiculous eyesore.  It had faux-adobe walls, Spanish tiles on the roof, and in every way looked as if it should have been somewhere in the southwest, in Arizona or California maybe.  Some place cursed with punishing heat, not hidden in the pines and oaks and snow of northern Michigan.

So, how was the drive? Greenberg asked, coming up after me.  I trust you found the place all right?

Found it fine, I said.  Jill took care of me.

Jill?

That’s what I call my GPS, I said.  She sounds like a Jill.

Oh, right – mine’s Maggie, he said, then clapped me on the shoulder.  So, Max, they tell me you’re a lawyer.

I am, I said, then corrected myself.  "I mean, I passed the bar.  That’s true."

Oh, don’t say it like that – some of my best lackey’s are lawyers, he said.  Curiously, so are some of my worst.  But I suppose that’s the proper order of things, isn’t it?

He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder again.  I didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.

So, what do you say to a look around? he went on, in my silence.  Give you the lay of the land, so to speak?

Sounds fine.

Well, there’s the house, he said and pointed to it.  But you can’t really miss it, can you?

No, no you can’t, I said.  "It’s very...nice."

Nice? Greenberg laughed.  "It’s not nice – for God’s sake, it’s hideous."

I...

Max, the first thing you should know about me is I have no stomach for ‘yes’ men, he said.  If it’s hideous, say so – I won’t be offended.

No, it’s..., I said.  "It’s charming."

Greenberg laughed.

"Charming’ is not the word I’d use for it, he said.  Honestly, Max, when I first saw the house I thought it was the worst piece of shit I’d ever seen – and I’ve seen some real pieces of shit in my life.  The only reason I bought it was to tear it down and put up something more...appropriate...in its place.  But when the time came I just couldn’t bring myself to raze it – something wouldn’t let me.  I don’t want to say God intervened, but there was definitely something."

He stopped and admired the house a moment.  My gaze was far-less loving

But I tell you this – whatever it was, clearly it knew what it was talking about, he said.  "Because if I’d torn it down I’d’ve just wound up with one of those ridiculous hunting-lodge-things all these people have up here.  Deer heads might impress somebody, but not me.  So say what you will about my house – say it’s ugly, or an eyesore, or even charming.  All I can say is it’s my charming."

I see.

Do you?

I do.

Good, he said, then bade me to follow, leading me along the drive.  It circled around the north side of the house, buffered by a narrow planting bed with roses and dwarf pines, which Greenberg was certain to point out.  "The roses are an heirloom – those come from my grandmother’s place in California.  The rest of the plants are original to the property.  It’s the same with the house.  The siding, the cobblestone walks, the gates – those are all original to the property.  The pool and guest house – those were my doing.  But I defy you to tell me they don’t look original."

I promised I would defy him, if it was needed, but when we rounded the corner of the house and I saw the pool and guest house, a single building set off from the main house but looking as a mirror of it, only in miniature, I would’ve sworn they were original.  With the clay and the windows and the tiles on the roof, the two buildings looked completely of a piece.

Well, what do you think? he prompted.

I think it’s great, I said.

He smiled.

When I was interviewing contractors, most tried to talk me out of what I’d designed and into some tacky pole-barn building for the pool.  I kid you not – they actually wanted a barn, he said and showed me into the atrium that divided the pool house from the guesthouse.  It was balmy there, quite a change from the cool October air just outside the door.   "Sure, it might’ve been cheaper and quicker, but it’s only money – and I’ve got money.  Not that I could blame the man what he was selling.  After all, it’s the kind of thing the rubes up here usually want and he’s only doing what he’s always done.  But I’m not doing things his way, I’m doing them mine."

He smiled, the smile of a man accustomed to getting his way and rather than return it I looked at the wrought iron fence.  It’d run along the front of the property, to the east, and here it was again, running along to the south and out of sight into the distance.  Looking the other way, to the north, I could see it out beyond the garage, disappearing into the pines.

So, how much land is there? I finally said, turning back.

One hundred and twenty five acres, Greenberg said.  More or less.

I was impressed and said so.

"Impressed?  Don’t be, he said.  It’s 125 acres of the sandiest soil you ever saw.  Unless you throw down a solid layer of topsoil the only thing that grows are pine trees – you can see I got plenty of those.  But even then the roots are no good, so the first strong wind tends to knock ‘em over.  That might’ve been an ideal arrangement back in the day, when they were doing a lot of milling in this area – trees falling over on their own would be mighty convenient – but I’m not a lumber man."

I see.

Still, he said.  I love the place.

He looked out the window, at his flawed bauble.  Pride crossed his face.

So, Robert told me you had a job...? I said.

That’s right, he smiled. "The job."

But he never said what the job was, I said.  Not exactly.

That’s his way, isn’t it? Greenberg said.  Robert’s always been cagey with the details.

That’s one word for it, I said.

But not the only one, he agreed.  Now, let me ask you a question.

All right.

Can I trust you, Max?

I think so, I said.

"I don’t need you to think, I need you to know, he said.  Can I trust you?"

Yes, I said.  You can trust me.

Look me in the eyes, he said and pointed to them.  Look right here.

All right, I said, and did.  It was difficult to hold his gaze, his eyes unnerving.

"Can I trust you?"

Yes, I said.  You can trust me.

He smiled and seemed convinced.  Then he threw an around my shoulders and looked from one end of the pool house to the other.

Trust is a very important thing to me, Max, he said, "because my home – my castle – is everything to me."

I see that.

Good, because my house is like a baby to me, he said.  I’m not a married man and I don’t have any children – that I know of, anyway – so all I have is my house.  And I don’t like to leave it with just anybody.

Why would you? I said.

Exactly, he said, then drifted to one of the windows and gazed contemplatively into the distance.  Finally, he said, I’m going away for the winter, Max – Brazil until February, late February, at the earliest.  Maybe even March.

March?

Depending on how things work out – it’s too early to tell just yet, he said.  "And from now to March – four, four-and-a-half months – is a long time for a house to be unattended.  Even if it is only my summer house."

The house?

"Yes, the house," he said.

And you want...?

What I want is somebody here while I’m gone, he said.  Somebody to take care of the house.

You mean a...a caretaker?

"No, not exactly, he said.  See, Max, usually a caretaker comes and goes and only worries about the lawn and broken shingles and maybe a leaky pipe here and there – if he can be bothered.  And at night he goes somewhere else and leaves the house unattended for 20, 22 hours a day.  In other words, he’s away more than he’s here and I can’t have that.  I need someone who does more than take care of the house."

"How more?"

"You might not know it, but the people up here are a different