Chore Whore Read online

  I hustle up Eden and Star from various places on the playground. While they admire the car, I come to grips with the fact that Ferraris only have two seats. I have four people. Ferraris don’t come with a minivan option or small bucket seats in the back. With the children’s hips squeezed harder than they’ve ever been squeezed before, and the seatbelt stretched around all three, I start the engine and head for Lucy’s.

  As I cross into the Beverly Hills city limits, lights behind me twirl red and blue and a short blip of a siren tells me to pull over. I do so and wait for the sunglasses-and-bulletproof-vest-clad officer to approach. I keep my hands on the top of the steering wheel and stare straight ahead as every black person, no matter what sex or how light of skin, is taught to do by their elders upon the day of receiving their driver’s license.

  “Driver’s license and proof of registration please, ma’am.”

  I pull the registration from the leather owner’s manual in the glove compartment and slowly wrestle my purse from under the kids’ legs. Knowing good and well that I’m breaking the law by having so many people stuffed in a two-seater, along with my license and insurance papers, I hand him my CCW, my license to carry a concealed weapon. It’s gotten me out of trouble before. CCWs, when presented, let the officer know that the owner has been cleared with the Department of Justice and perhaps the officer should cut this person some slack. I also know the reputation of the Beverly Hills Police Department, hard-ass and unforgiving. I’ve never had to deal with them before.

  “Ma’am, is there a weapon in the vehicle?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but it’s not my car so I’m not sure. However, I do have permission to drive it. In fact, you’ll notice that my name is listed as an insured driver.”

  The officer doesn’t say anything. I sit quietly. My three charges don’t utter a peep. He takes my information back to his cruiser and gets inside. We all wait in silence. I see through the rearview mirror that he is returning.

  “Miss Brown, will you please step out of the vehicle.”

  Son of a bitch. I know I’m in trouble now. My legs are trembling as I exit the car. I wonder what he’s going to do with the children while he’s hauling me off to jail for endangering kids’ lives by piling them in the car as if I’m trying to break a world record in a 1960s Volkswagen cramming session. I step up onto the curb and finally look directly at the officer. He looks severe and tough, with his police-issue sunglasses that penetrate me like laser beams.

  “Cornelia Wren Brown?” he says, seriously.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You clean up pretty nicely.”

  “Sir?”

  Mr. Police Officer cracks a slight smile followed by removal of his laser beams, and I realize that this SOB was my knight in shining armor a few days ago at the bank.

  “Officer Holt, right?” I ask, relieved.

  “Gregory Holt, yes,” he says as he extends his hand. “Nice to remake your acquaintance under better circumstances.”

  I take his hand and unabashedly hold it for too long. Shelly always says that I am way too flirtatious, but I notice he doesn’t mind.

  “I don’t know if getting pulled over on Sunset Boulevard with all of L.A. driving by is a ‘better circumstance,’ ” I say, sweetly.

  “Well,” he ponders, “all things considered, I’d rather be pulled over than pulled out of a tear-gas-filled vault.”

  “Come to think of it, me too.” Embarrassed, I clear my throat, cough a few times for good measure and go on to explain how I stuffed four people into a two-seater and more importantly, why I stuffed four people into a two-seater. Gregory, as he asks me to call him, lets me go without a ticket. I can’t wait to call Shelly. For the first time in what feels like forever, a guy has asked me out. I have a date!

  After hustling the kids into Betty, I back Lucy’s Ferrari down the hill into the garage the way Lucy likes because she always skims the bushes trying to back out uphill. I look around, but don’t see the Mercedes that Jolene and Bobby Sue were driving, anywhere.

  Knocking on the door lightly, I let myself in and put the car keys on the kitchen counter—the usual spot Lucy and I leave things for each other. A note for me is there under a fancy vase with a pointed, decorative lid. It reads: “Corki, Please see me before you go. Love, L.”

  I walk through the house. The place is dead quiet.

  “Lucy!” I call out in a whisper. “Luuuu-cyyyy,” I try a bit louder.

  No answer.

  Suddenly, her bedroom door opens and she comes out in a light pink thong and nothing else. She doesn’t bother to cover her bare breasts except to hunch her back and put her index finger up to her mouth to shush me. She motions for me to follow her to the kitchen. I follow her, tiptoeing across the wood floors.

  Without a hint of reservation or modesty, she gathers up a few rolls of film setting on the counter, puts her hand in mine and deposits the film.

  “Corki, these rolls have some extremely private pictures on them. I want you to get them developed, but when you do, I expect you to stand behind the man doing it and watch to make sure he gives you one copy of every picture and all the negatives. Understand?”

  “Of course. But Lucy, everything is computerized these days. These pictures can be regenerated without the negatives! Maybe you should have used a Polaroid or, better yet, a digital camera.”

  “Well, these are already done and the moments can’t be re-created, so I need them developed. But you have to promise to stand right over him. I don’t want any copies getting out,” she restates emphatically.

  We stand there for a moment in silence. I know I need to ask her if I’m about to lose my job to Jolene and Bobby Sue. Looking down, I stare at the film she’s entrusted me with.

  “Lucy, I need to talk to you about—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I do have one more thing to talk to you about. As I said, Tommy and I are going to buy a house together and I don’t want to hear one complaint. Just be happy for us,” she says as she playfully holds her hand over my mouth.

  I try to concentrate on what she’s saying instead of where her hand has been.

  “Tommy Ray’s in a weird position living in a hotel and all, and the girls are just moving here so they’re sort of in transition, too. And here we are planning on moving and getting rid of stuff. We need to just clean everything out. You know I have so much stuff I can never find anything I need. I think you’re the only one who knows where everything is in my life.”

  “Yes,” I reply, “it’s all in my apartment and garage . . . a very full garage, I might add. In fact, every year when I do my taxes and the IRS insists that I can’t write off eighty percent of my place as workspace, I invite them over.”

  Lucy smiles as she places her hand on the beautiful vase under which my note lay earlier. She hesitates a moment.

  “You know I’m a little phobic about certain things, Corki. Well, Tommy wants me to keep this in a safe place, but I just can’t do it. You know me. I really need you to keep this in your house, in a safe place, not in your garage.”

  She hands me the vase, which is surprisingly heavy.

  “This is his most prized possession and he wants to know where it is at all times. He needs to know it’s safe, and with all the packing and everything, I could see it getting lost really easily here.”

  “Lucy, how much is this worth?” I ask.

  “It’s irreplaceable,” she says.

  “Does he have adequate insurance on it that will cover it staying at my house? Some policies—”

  “Corki, it’s irreplaceable. It can’t be insured. It’s his mother.”

  I almost drop the vase as I put it back on the counter with a thud. “Lucy, I’ve got Blaise waiting in the car. I think I better go and maybe we can discuss this later.”

  Lucy picks it up, puts it in a Whole Foods double paper bag and hands it to me with a look that means I can’t say no.

  “Corki, don’t be squeamish. This is the woman who gave birth
to the man I love, and we need you to watch over her. Oh, and Tommy’s so sweet, he offered to take over your weekly paycheck and give you that three-dollar-an-hour raise you were asking for so I won’t have to worry about it since I’m between films.”

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

  Chapter Nine

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  “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.