The Bodega on Indigo and Sixth

Mrs. Lessa, who was pushing forty-four and feeling it, posted the advertisement on Craigslist at nine o’clock, a time that fell within the window Daisy had recommended.

Daisy was the checkout girl at the bodega she’d been frequenting for the past year.

The two women had struck up a kind of friendship, which by Mrs. Lessa’s definition included anyone she spoke to about more than just the weather. They’d discussed intimate things like calorie counting and money problems (Daisy was behind on rent and Mrs. Lessa had been purchasing things like handmade plates and forty-dollar hand soap that made her hands feel soft).

They got on with such ease. Mrs. Lessa couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that, but she could tell that Daisy had a natural way of connecting with people, that this sort of thing was probably not unusual for her. The girl had interesting things to say, and she was nice to look at.

One day, Mrs. Lessa steered the conversation in a different direction.

“Just the breakfast sandwich today?” asked the young woman, her brown bangs bouncing against her golden skin as she spoke.

“And a pack of Menthols.”

“Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

“Eh, depends on the day,” she said with a smirk. “I actually had a question for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, how’d you get this job?”

“Oh, well it was simple.” Daisy handed her the pack and sighed. “I graduated and couldn’t find a job but had to pay rent. So I went on Craigslist from seven to noon every day like it was a drill until I got a few bites. I had three or four interviews at other places but this is the only place that offered.”

“Sounds rough,” Mrs. Lessa said punching in her pin.

“That was last year. It was supposed to be temporary, but you know what? I really like it here. My friends have proper jobs, and they all want to die. I feel fine.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Lessa recalled a previous conversation they had in which Daisy spoke fondly of the bodega — how she looked forward to organizing the cold drinks in the morning before she opened and how powerful she felt yelling at obnoxious passersby to get lost. It was curious to Mrs. Lessa that such a clever girl could find such a mundane job so satisfying. Curious but admirable.

“Why do you ask?” Daisy asked. “You looking?”

“I’m actually looking to hire someone, a nanny, to watch after my son. Do you know anyone?”

Daisy shook her head. “Not anyone I trust. I like you too much to introduce you to anyone I know.” This elicited a hearty laugh from Mrs. Lessa. She added, “I think you should post something. Weekdays between eight and ten are best, I’ve heard.”

“Eight and ten. Alright, I think I will. Thanks for the tip. Let me, uh, buy you a bottle of something. What do you take?”

“No need — “

“I know you probably get a discount but I want to thank you. You’re always so … kind.”

“That’s very generous but I’m actually expecting,” she said patting her stomach. She scrunched her nose. “Three months in.”

“Well, then,” she said with a tight-lipped smile. “Congratulations.”

The Craigslist advertisement was straightforward: Live-in nanny/household manager for newborn. Must have a valid driver’s license. Competitive pay. Cover letter and two local references required (or one excellent one).

Her heart skipped when the first email came in. She felt important. By noon, she had twenty-four notifications, and by the end of the day more than sixty. It was a real thrill. She clicked through them all and even put on her reading glasses.

Besides that, the only other messages she received were from her Uncle Rob, who sometimes sent photos and videos of family events around the holidays, and promotional emails from retailers like Anthropologie and Williams & Sonoma, also around the holidays. She hadn’t had a desk job in years and took to submitting feedback surveys to bide her time. “I really enjoyed my experience” was how she typically opened.

But now there were people awaiting her response. Mrs. Lessa prepared a spreadsheet and began to filter through the applicants.

Of the sixty-odd hopefuls, fourteen submitted cover letters. Of the fourteen, only six had the experience. She considered giving the candidates without cover letters a second look—they had been bold after all—but the first one had ho0terzgal86417@hotmail.com as her preferred contact email and ruined it for the rest of the group. It was less the Hooters reference and more that she used Hotmail as her email provider that cost her.

She pushed out follow-up emails to four of the candidates and waited. By Friday afternoon, she’d completed in-person interviews at a nearby Starbucks, each one lasting about forty-five minutes.

That same evening, she phoned the one candidate she liked. “Will you come over for dinner tomorrow to meet with my husband?”

“I’ll be there.”

George Lessa had built quite the reputation as the founder of ViewDX, a shoddy startup turned well-oiled machine in just four years. Mrs. Lessa still wasn’t sure what they did—how they contributed to the world at all—but his success had allowed them a certain lifestyle, one in which Mrs. Lessa could buy almost anything, but for a house that George rarely came home to. Most nights he spent in his downtown loft.

But he was there that Saturday as Mrs. Lessa requested.

She’d spent the morning at the farmers’ market, where she picked up fresh carnations and tarragon, and the grocery store for lobster tails, butter, and flour. Everything else she needed she already had in the pantry.

“Nice spread. Lobster, really?” George said strolling into the dining room with a sparkle in his eyes. Then he scratched at his temple. “I didn’t miss our anniversary, did I? No, that’s the fourth. What’s going on, Liv?”

“We’re having a guest.” Mrs. Lessa lifted her chin so her husband could kiss her cheek. His stubble smelled of soap and musk, a piercing scent that made her tingle even then.

“Guest?”

The doorbell rang.

“Please sit,” she said with her hand outstretched, “I’ll get it.”

Mrs. Lessa returned with a dark-browed woman who was similar in age. “George, this is Miriam Curran-Sanchez. Miriam, my husband, George.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she replied warmly. “I brought an extra copy of my resume.”

George scanned the document and jerked his head up. “Nanny? What do we need — “

“Have a seat, Miriam,” Mrs. Lessa instructed.

“Mr. Lessa, pleased to meet you. And Mrs. Lessa, thank you for meeting with me again. As you know, prior to this assignment, I sat for the Stents.”

“Oh, yes. I spoke with them this morning. Nothing but praise.”

“Liv, what the hell is going on here?” George huffed impatiently.

“Lobster?” Mrs. Lessa asked, ignoring her husband.

Miriam hesitated but gave a slight nod.

After everyone’s plates and glasses were filled, Mrs. Lessa spoke again.

“My husband has impregnated my one and only friend.” She turned to George. “I met her at the bodega near your office the day your car broke down. You remember that, don’t you? I dropped you off then got hungry. I thought, ‘Maybe I’ll go get myself a sandwich.’ I parked the car in a metered spot without paying and got a ticket. Anyway, I noticed her necklace, the girl’s.” Mrs. Lessa tugged at the silver around her own neck.

“I returned every day after that and told her I worked in the area. I thought about smacking her. Setting your clothes on fire. Setting the bodega on fire. So many things. But each day I developed a liking for her, a boredom for you. I’d buy the same thing and listen to her gush over a married man she’d become enamored with, forgetting sometimes that it was you she was talking about. Last week, I found out that she was pregnant. It’s yours, you know. She’s in love with you, that’s clear, but she also enjoys working. You’ll need a nanny, so I found a very good one. Miriam here will do an excellent job. Won’t you, Miriam?”

George, who had been stuffing bread into his mouth, began to heave. As he pounded at his chest, Mrs. Lessa lifted a forkful of lobster to her lips.

The following Monday, Mrs. Lessa received a call from an unknown number. She accepted after the second ring.

“I’m sorry, Liv,” Daisy said breathily on the other end, “I really am just … oh, I don’t know. You must hate me.”

“I poked holes in the condoms.”

“What?”

“The condom boxes at the counter. I’d come in and just poke them. It would’ve been impossible for you to notice. They were on my side. Anyway, my husband told me he was infertile. I suppose this was my way of catching him in his lie,” she sighed, “and a chance for me to escape my own aimlessness.”

“I — ”

“Don’t feel bad, Daisy.”

The women remained on the line and listened to one another breathing.

“You’ve got to go,” Mrs. Lessa said softly, “the shop opens soon, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah. But what’re you going to do?”

“Me?” she said with a laugh, “I’m off, I guess, to find my own bodega.”