Chore Whore (16 page)

I pull the bag close to my chest and hold the rolls of film, forgetting everything else that needed to be said.

Envision Preparatory Academy
looks like a California Jesuit mission, with red-tiled roofs and white stucco walls divided by walkways with wide arches and coved ceilings. I remember my elementary school of boxlike buildings and feel a tinge of jealousy. With architecture like this, I would have been thrilled to go to school every day. I weave Betty through Bentleys and Land Rovers in the parking lot and find a space. A minute later, Shelly pulls her car in next to mine.

Eden, Star and Blaise don't look nervous at all, but Shelly and I throw anxious glances at one another as we escort them to their new classroom.

“Thank goodness they're all in one room together,” Shelly says with a nervous smile.

I take the school registration slip out of my purse and notice its strap is about to break. Great. One more expense I can't afford right now.

“Room 303. Mrs. Blessing,” I read.

With a rock the size of a marble on her perfectly manicured hand, it seems she certainly has been blessed. Her white linen suit looks like something the children had better not touch.

On the way out, we pass by Bruce Willis dropping off his daughters and Billy Bob Thornton dropping off his boys.

“You think this is the right environment for them?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Shelly says. “I hope they won't feel out of place. I've never seen kids with Hermès backpacks and Coach hats before.”

“Aside from Bruce and Billy over there, I see mostly nannies dropping off.”

“Is Blaise excited?”

“He seemed really happy about the science lab, but not much else. What about the girls?”

“Eden's excited about learning Japanese and Star's thrilled with their ballet program . . . oh, and they both can't wait for the field trip to Washington, D.C.”

“And here my sister Drusilla and I were ecstatic about taking a tour of the Wonder Bread factory when we were their age.”

A redheaded woman with a tightly pulled face and high ears waves at us from a Jaguar.

“You know her?” Shelly asks as she waves back, smiling.

“No,” I say, smiling and waving as if I do. “She doesn't look familiar.”

The crimson red Jag pulls up and the passenger window rolls down. The woman leans over to talk to us.

“Hello there! I've seen you in my neighborhood,” she says, pointing to Shelly, “and noticed how pretty you are.”

“Wow, thanks,” Shelly says, slightly embarrassed.

“My name's Eileen and I wonder if perhaps you have a few days free?”

“To do what?” Shelly asks.

“Clean my house . . . I assume you're a housekeeper.”

Shelly stiffens. “You assume wrong.”

Mortified, Eileen drives off.

We walk quietly to our cars.

“Maybe this isn't the right place for the kids.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I was thinking the same thing.”

Shelly and I
pull two huge rolling landscaper's wagons with industrial-sized wheels up the hill behind Esther's guesthouse. Mine has a large shovel in the back.

“I just couldn't let that Eileen woman think that I'm nothing but a housekeeper. I have a bachelor's degree, I was a recording studio mixer, and I'm a very good mom.”

“And you were voted queen at your cotillion ball.”

“That's right!” Shelly says indignantly. “Esther even calls me her ‘friend.' She never lets the word ‘housekeeper' or, God forbid, ‘maid' pass her lips.”

We struggle to pull the wagons up the hill while I pant and cough. “This is a man's job. The gardener should be doing this.”

Finally, we rest at the top of the paved road with Shelly struggling to catch her breath and me wheezing.

“Now, tell me exactly why we're doing this,” I cough.

Shelly waves her arm to sweep across the whole side of the dense-brush-covered hill.

“Esther saw Tom Selleck's place in Hawaii and she wants to imitate the paths on his property. But instead of conch shells lining them, she wants to use rocks, three to four inches wide.”

“But there are tons of rattlesnakes up here,” I say.

“Yeah, but it's still winter, if you call eighty-two degrees winter, and they should be hibernating. Esther had an expert come out a few weeks ago to teach me how to catch and rerelease them into the wild.”

“With all due respect, if I see a snake, I'm killing it.”

I put a bandanna around my nose so I won't breathe in dust, and Shelly does the same. We climb through the brush and collect rocks for an hour. When the wagons are full, we start down the hill.

“Corki, you must have a constitution of granite. If my lungs were in the condition yours are in, I'd be in a coffin.”

“Rent's due and my work is running out. I have an interview this afternoon though. Jennifer Aniston. Wish me luck.”

“Don't worry, you'll nail it.”

Two hours later,
standing under a flow of very hot water and letting the shower carry all the dirt and tension down the drain, I wash my hair and get ready for the interview that just may change the direction of my life.

I perfect my makeup, lightly spray on perfume that smells like freshly cut grass, slip on some pointy shoes, then stare into the mirror. Dear God, I actually look good. As Officer Gregory Holt said, I clean up pretty nicely. I'll be forty in a few days, but I think I could still pass for twenty-seven—in my deepest fantasies. Hiking my breasts up to look perfectly even and fluffy, the way they were before Blaise was born, I walk out the door.

The interview goes well. I'm professional, charming and witty. They are thorough and inquisitive. They ask all the questions for which I have prepared answers.

Back in my truck, I take off my shoes, which have become devices of torture, and replace them with sneakers. I drive toward my favorite quickie film-development center on Sunset Boulevard, across the street from a grocery store the locals have nicknamed “Rock 'n' Roll Ralph's.” Twenty-four hours a day the place is filled with spiked hair, black leather and piercings of every variety.

I walk into the empty photo place and ask to speak to the owner. He scoots out from the back and rushes to meet me, pumping my hand with enthusiasm.

“Good to see you, Mrs. Brown. So nice of you to bring me your business. How can I help you today?”

“Well, Mr. Kim, I'm sorry to ask you this, but my client wants me to watch over your worker as he develops these,” I say, slightly embarrassed.

“I see. Nasty pictures. Pornography,” he says, flatly.

“Mr. Kim, all I know is what I was told to do,” I say defensively. “I'm an innocent bystander.”

“No, no, you good customer. I do 'em.”

And with that, Mr. Kim raises his voice and yells to the guy who processes the film. They have what seems to be a heated exchange in Korean as I watch, waiting to hear the translated outcome. At last, Mr. Kim pulls a chair out from behind the counter next to the film-processing machine.

“Mrs. Brown, you sit here. This is Seung Jae. He will help you.”

Seung Jae bows his head respectfully and I bow mine back, not sure if that's the proper thing to do. He takes the rolls of film and puts them in a dark baglike container. Twenty minutes and two Us magazines later, he threads the rolls of film through the machine and pictures pop up on a screen.

What on God's green earth was Lucy thinking? Tommy Ray on a bed with his back arched up holding his erect penis . . . Lucy photographing Tommy going down on her . . . Tommy sticking a dildo in Jolene and himself in Lucy. Jolene and Bobby Sue and Lucy going in a round with mouths and crotches all connected.

How could they record these acts on film that someone else would develop? If these three rolls of film fell into the wrong hands, some opportunist could make a ton of money. I can't blink and I sure don't want to look at Seung Jae. He doesn't flinch except to move some dials that change the light in the pictures. He adjusts the color on each print, then asks me how many copies of each I want.

I hesitate for a moment. A moment in which I recall that my living expenses exceed the amount that I am earning. A moment in which I am all too aware of the fact that I have very little savings. A split second where I remember I am almost forty years old and my job security is now being sucked down the tubes by the girls in the pictures with their mouths on Lucy's breasts. A moment of desperation in which I see that my twenty years of solid loyalty to Lucy means absolutely nothing.

I feel sick inside.

“Two, please,” I say.

“Corki,
I'm in a bit of a pinch,” Veronique says on my answering machine before I can pick up.

“Hey! Just dropped Blaise off at school.”

“Oh, thank God you're there. Roberto's in town now and it turns out I have to leave for New Mexico sooner than I thought. He has to stay here on business and I wanted to find out if there is any way you can cook for him and take care of my dog, too?”

“Well, yeah. My workload is featherweight right now. I'd be happy to.”

“We've already discussed Roberto and Mr. Fu just needs to be fed, walked, his daily insulin shot and sunblock application. If it's cold, he needs his coat.”

“That's fine. I can do that.”

We arrange meal times and when to pick up more insulin and needles.

I sit and begin to plan some sample menus for Roberto. Homemade pumpkin seed granola with Greek yoghurt and berries or homemade flaxseed muffins with whipped honey butter and a fruit salad of mango, pineapple, blueberries and cherries for breakfasts. Lunches could be a choice of plantain-pear soup with lentils or shrimp corn chowder and a variety of organic grained breads with butter and salads—edamame and sautéed red cabbage or baby greens with chèvre and pistachios. Tamarind-glazed swordfish with a mango/pineapple relish, lobster and asparagus risotto and, the next day, lime and black-pepper chicken with roasted garlic potatoes for his dinner selections. I'll fix a variety of food for him to have on hand in case of a midnight snack attack. The only cuisine I hope might be a surprise is Caribbean—I've thrown in a little taste of Puerto Rico, Martinique and the Mexican Riviera as well.

For Mr. Fu, I'll prepare a sautéed lamb liver one day and organic boneless chicken breasts the next. I fax over the menu and Veronique approves immediately. I then call the pharmacy for a refill of insulin and hypodermic syringes for Veronique's eleven-year-old near-toothless, hairless, Chinese Crested dog who likes to follow me, growl and gum my heels.

I head toward my favorite West Hollywood pharmacy counting my blessings. With this new bit of work I may just make the rent this month and have enough to clear my car payment, too. My cell phone—which has been quiet as of late—rings. I don't recognize the number.

“Hello, this is Corki.”

“Mrs. Brown, this is Mr. Davidson. I'm the principal here at Envision Prep.”

God, not in the first week! He was so good when he was with me over Christmas. What is it now?

“I have your son, Blaise, in the office with me.”

I breathe deeply and exhale completely.

“Yes. May I ask why?”

“I would like to have him explain it. Hold the line just one moment please.”

Blaise gets on the phone.

“Mom, I . . . um, I didn't mean to . . . well, maybe I sort of did.”

“Blaise, just tell me what happened.”

“We had a science project and Atom and I made a volcano.”

“And?”

“And we made it blow up . . . with real fire and lava made from mud and rocks.”

“Did anything catch fire?” I ask, exhausted already.

“Just a bulletin board and the periodic table.”

“All right, give me Mr. Davidson.”

The principal comes back on the phone.

“Mrs. Brown—”

“Mr. Davidson, was anything else destroyed? I'll replace what he ruined.”

“There's mud everywhere. It will mostly take elbow grease to restore the room to its original cleanliness.”

“Well, by all means, get Atom and Blaise to do it . . . let them clean it up.”

“Mrs. Brown, Atom is not on a reduced tuition program and he won't be required to—”

“Wait a minute! Are you saying,” I interrupt, “that Atom won't have any accountability because he pays more?”

“Yes, ma'am. That is exactly what I'm saying.”

“I see,” I say, wanting to slap Mr. Davidson good and hard. “Well, I want my son to learn to take responsibility for his actions, so please have him clean up the mess that he has made and I'll be sure to tell him that when he grows up, money can pay off irresponsibility. I'd like to speak to my son, please.”

“Hi, Mom,” Blaise says dejectedly.

“I have to go to work right now, but I'm going to come get you as soon as possible. I want you to clean up exactly one half of the mess. No more, no less, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Do it.”