“What happened?” I asked.
“Okay, well, Jane died. She died a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I tried to figure out what kind of grief Jane’s death would inspire in Madison. None, probably. But I still said that I was sorry.
“It’s tragic,” she said. “She never really recovered from the divorce. She had always been so brittle, so strange. Honestly, she went a little crazy. She’d call late at night saying the most awful things. Jasper never really understood how to deal with her. I’d have to talk to her all night long, walking her through her new reality. I’m good at that stuff, you know?”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
Madison frowned. Her freckles were so beautiful. “Here’s what I need to tell you, okay, Lillian? Here’s where I need you to promise to keep a secret.”
“Okay,” I said, growing a little irritated. I’d already said I’d keep the fucking secret. I needed the secret. I needed to eat it, for it to live inside me.
“Now that Jane has passed away,” she continued, “there is the matter of Jasper’s children. They’re ten years old. Twins. Bessie and Roland. Sweet kids— Shit, no, I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know them. But, you know, they’re kids. And now, well, they’re Jasper’s kids. They’re his responsibility. And so we’re making adjustments in our lives in order to accommodate them.”
“Wait,” I asked, “you’ve never even met your husband’s kids? Has he seen them?”
“Lillian? Please,” she said, “can we not focus on this?”
“Are they not already here?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she admitted.
“But if the mom died a while ago, what are they doing? Are they on their own?” I asked.
“No, of course not. Jeez. They’re with Jane’s parents, super-old people and not good with kids. We just needed time to get everything prepared for their arrival. In just over a week, they’ll be here with us. Living with us.”
“Okay,” I said.
“They’ve been through a lot, Lillian. They’ve not had the best life. Jane was a difficult person. She kept the children in the house with her and never left. She homeschooled them, but I can’t imagine what she taught them. They’re not used to people. They’re not prepared for change.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
“I want you to take care of them,” Madison finally said, the whole reason I’d taken a bus to see her.
“Like a nanny?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Like a nanny, I guess; okay,” Madison said, more to herself than to me. “I thought maybe more like a governess, like more old-fashioned.”
“How is it different?” I asked.
“I think it’s mostly just the way it sounds. Really, though, you’d handle all aspects of their care. You’d make sure they were happy; you’d teach them so that they can get up to speed with their lessons. You’d monitor their progress. Make sure they exercise. Make sure they stay clean.”
“Madison, are they, like, mole people or something? What’s wrong with them?” I wanted so badly for something to be wrong with them. I wanted them to be mutants.
“They’re just kids. But kids are so fucking wild, Lillian. You have no idea. You don’t even know.”
“Timothy seems pretty easy,” I offered, so dumb.
“That’s just pictures,” Madison said, suddenly wired. “I’ve trained him, though. I kind of had to break him in.”
“Well, he’s cute,” I said.
“These kids are cute, too, Lillian,” Madison replied.
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked again.
Madison hadn’t touched her tea during the entire conversation, since we sat down, and now, to buy some time, she drank a whole glass. Finally, she looked at me with great seriousness.
“Here is the thing,” she said. “Jasper is up for secretary of state. It’s all very hush-hush right now, okay? The other guy is sick and he’s going to step down. And some of the president’s people have reached out to Jasper to see about him and to start the process of vetting him. It’s all happening this summer.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“This could lead to big things. Like, vice-president stuff. Or president even, if everything went just right.”