The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

but I’m actually shivering as I complete a jar test in the make-shift lab. Later, when I wash my hands under a stream of almost-scalding water, I don’t want to turn off the tap because the hot water feels so good against my skin. I’m already wearing a fleece pullover, but I grab a goose-down vest from my locker as well, hoping the extra layer will warm me up.

I sit down next to Roger Hoekstra in what passes for our lunchroom, which is really just a cramped rectangular room with two fridges, a microwave balanced on milk crates, and a coffee maker that someone brought in from home. A series of narrow windows line one wall, looking out onto the parking lot. Roger grunts at me and resumes eating his sandwich. He has the same lunch every day: a ham sandwich on white bread, a piece of fruit (either an apple or a banana), two yogurts, and a thermos of soup. I don’t know if Roger is such a creature of habit that he wants the same thing every day, or if his wife makes his lunch for him and he has no say in the matter. I’ve met Beatrice, and she is most definitely a creature of habit. So much so that I get the sense she wouldn’t let Roger muddle around in the kitchen, getting crumbs on the counter, so even if he wanted to make his own lunch, he’s probably not allowed.

I rub my hands together. “It’s cold today.”

“Supposed to go down to minus thirteen by this afternoon,” Roger informs me. “We’re not done with winter yet. At least it’ll stave off some of the run-off we’ve had the past few days. Damn turbidity levels are all over the place.”

I nod sympathetically. I’m glad I wasn’t working on the weekend. The above-average temperatures and the subsequent snow melt would have stirred up all kinds of sediment in the river. I bet the water coming in through the intake pumps was murky as hell. I know from experience it was no picnic for the operators who would have had to adjust the alum dosages constantly.

I watch as Roger slowly pours some soup into the lid of his thermos; the steam curls into the air and I wish I’d thought to pack something hot today. My tuna sandwich is too dry — not enough mayonnaise — so I end up washing it down with swigs of lukewarm coffee.

When I first started working at the Water Treatment Plant, fresh out of high school, Roger was the one who trained me. He’s quite a bit older than I am — he must be in his mid-sixties by now — and yet there’s something in his quiet personality that I was drawn to from the start. He was a patient teacher, never seeming to mind when he had to explain things to me more than once or had to show me how to do something that he’d already demonstrated multiple times before. He also didn’t care that I was a girl, and I can’t say the same was true for the other men at the plant. When I first started, it was very much a boys’ club; it still is, to some extent, but at least now I’m not the only female. There are three of us, which isn’t exactly a sweeping majority, but it beats being the lone set of boobs in a building full of beer bellies.

Roger’s even more pissed off than I am about the plant being privatized, mostly because he’s so close to retirement. Even though the upcoming interviews with CCS are weighing on my mind, I decide not to mention them. Instead, Roger and I eat in companionable silence while I steal jealous glances at his steaming spoonfuls of soup.

Eventually, my mind drifts back to last night. Was I imagining Jason’s nervousness? As much as I said I wasn’t ready for us to move in together, if I lose my job, his arguments about saving money by combining our households will make even more sense. And when it comes right down to it, I don’t believe for a second that Crystal Clear Solutions is truly planning on retaining all of us. They can’t be. Why else would they bother with this whole interview farce? And if I did suddenly become unemployed, would Jason think twice about proposing or would it spur him on? Maybe he’d jump at the chance to play the rescuing hero; he’s done it before. It’s how we met.

“How’re those pictures you’re making for Parker coming along?” Roger asks. He’s finished his soup and is screwing the lid back on his thermos.

“They’re coming,” I say. I almost tell him that I thought Jason was going to propose last night. It seems like something I would have told him, before; but for some reason, I don’t mention it. Roger is more like a father-figure to me than anyone else and he’s listened to his fair share of my drama-infused tribulations over the years, but I’m not ready to admit my foolish suspicions out loud. Partly because then I’d also have to admit how I ruined the moment, if there was, in fact, about to be a moment.

I used to spend more time than I do now with Roger and his wife. I still have dinner at their house every now and again, although I would be lying if I didn’t admit it was more fun when Amir was around. I’d be willing to bet that even Roger misses Amir. He didn’t ask any questions when things went south; all he said when I told him was, “I guess it’s none of my business.” That’s basically our motto with each other. For example: Roger and Beatrice never had any kids and while I have my own theories about why, I’ve never once broached the subject with Roger, because really, it is none of my business. Amir, though, he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around their