After thirteen months of phone screens, first rounds, second rounds—final rounds—nothing had panned out, and my husband was left exhausted with little confidence. I was hesitant when he showed me the job posting that had caught his eye.
Sweep things under the rug. Broom needed. Highest level of confidentiality required.
The pay would be minimal, and there was no room for growth. Yet, my husband went out and purchased a broom that day.
He took his new job very seriously and worked long, hard hours. Red, pus-filled blisters appeared on his hands, but he simply bandaged them and didn’t complain. He didn’t talk to me about his work or whereabouts, but I saw his car parked outside a few of the neighbors’ houses, once even on the Morgensons’ drive, our sweet elderly neighbors down the street. That night at dinner, curiosity got the better of me.
The Morgensons’? I asked.
He looked down, avoiding my gaze. You can’t imagine, he whispered.
After a particularly long day when he bled through his bandages and fell asleep on the couch without dinner, he woke in the midst of a nightmare, crying. I tried to console him, but he only asked me to get his broom. He clutched it to his chest until he calmed.
A month later, he turned down a call from a recruiter about an IT manager position, perfectly suited to his expertise. It was then that I noticed his hands had become calloused and strong, and I couldn’t remember the last time we touched. I thought to reach for him but saw a wrapper and dust-filled corner.
I went to get the broom. My fingers slipped easily into the worn wood crevices. But under the rug, there was no more room.
Rachel Weinhaus is a screenwriter, memoirist, and flash fiction writer. She earned an MFA in screenwriting from the University of Southern California's School of Cinema-Television.
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