Three Women by Marge Piercy Page A

needs a receptionist. Why not?”
    “Elena is not the world’s most responsible citizen, you know,” Suzanne said slowly. “I’d be really happy for her to go back to work, but have the two of you thought this through?”
    Jim waved his hand airily. “You’re too down on her. It’s not a demanding job. It’s three days a week. She might even like it. I don’t have an elaborate history with her, like both of you, so she’s more herself with me.”
    “Did you ask her?”
    “Of course,” Jim said. “Why wouldn’t I ask her? She’s an adult and it’s a quieter environment than the restaurant. I don’t expect it to be permanent, but my office is falling apart since my assistant got a full-time job.”
    “What do you think about it?” she asked Marta.
    “It sounds worth trying. Jim’s been complaining about getting behind in billing, his records incomplete, double-booking appointments….”
    Suzanne understood. When Jim complained, Marta felt obliged to solve his problems. Probably the idea of hiring Elena had been hers to begin with: since Marta had defended Elena in court, she had always felt a little responsible for her. Not that Elena usually appreciated that any more than what she saw as Suzanne’s meddling.
    When she came downstairs, she was able to locate Mao immediately by the sound of loud hissing—a den of snakes—and a harsh yowling she could not imagine issuing from her gentle Sherlock in spite of seeing him with his back arched and his fur on end. Tamar was up on the counter out of harm’s way, but her fur too was erected in an attempt to look even bigger than she was. Both cats were bigger than Mao, but he was standing his ground. The confrontation had occurred over a dish of cat food that Elena had put down on the kitchen floor. She wished she could explain to her cats that Mao was a visitor and needed support, not hostility. She scooped up Sherlock who made terrible threats but allowed himself to be carried off to her bedroom, where she shut the door and fussed over him. Then she unpacked her carry-on bag and tried to figure out exactly what overdue piece of work she should tackle first. It promised to be a long night. She would answer Jake in the morning. At the moment, he felt like one more demand in an increasing list of them. When she tried to call up his face, she saw only Beverly, twisted and in despair.
     
    Elena was sprawled on the sofa with Mao on her lap. “So I think I found a job.”
    “In Jim’s office?” Suzanne asked cautiously.
    “It doesn’t pay great, but it’s not exactly brain surgery.”
    “Elena, if you go to work for friends, it doesn’t mean you don’t have to work hard, get there on time, the whole ball of wax. Because they’re friends, you can’t just walk out.”
    “Do you think I’m a total flake? I’ve held all kinds of jobs, and it’s no big deal for me to work for Jim and handle his little office.”
    “But, Elena, sitting up in a therapist’s office making appointments isn’t anything like as lively as working in the restaurant. The proprietor may have been oppressive, but you liked the scene. You told me you loved going to after-hours bars and hanging out with the kitchen crew and the waiters.”
    “Yeah, it’s a scene, but I’ve had it. Nothing real comes of it, just surface excitement. Some waiter goes, Look who just walked in. The second-string sportscaster from Channel Four, big deal! Enough….” Elena slowly scratched Mao under his chin and he leaned into her hand, safe in her lap from the big orange monsters her gentle sweet cats hadbecome. “Mother, you’re the one been telling me for years, think about your future. Think about what you want to do. Et cetera. Et cetera.”
    “But surely the future you crave isn’t being a receptionist.”
    “I want to see what a therapist does. You’re always making jokes about therapists, but when people hurt, that’s where they go. Remember when you thought it was awfully important