by Tina Martin
Agreement for ‘Operation Legacy’
I ______________ agree to the following terms set forth in this agreement as explained to me by Magnus St. Claire. I agree to have a baby by Mr. Magnus St. Claire and for my services, I’ll be compensated one-million US dollars.
If after four months of trying and I do not become pregnant, I can choose to terminate this agreement but in doing so, I’m aware that I also forfeit $500,000 (half of the original agreed upon compensation).
If a pregnancy results, I agree to carry the baby to term. When the pregnancy is over, I understand that Mr. Magnus St. Claire and I will have full parental rights, but the baby will live in a place of Mr. Magnus St. Claire’s choosing.
I agree to eat healthy meals and make all doctor appointments to ensure the well-being of my child.
I understand that this agreement is only for me to have a baby. I am in no way obligated to Mr. Magnus St. Claire outside of that and he is in no way obligated to me.
This agreement shall be kept confidential and I agree not to disclose the terms of this agreement to anyone, including friends, family, media outlets, etc. Doing so will result in a breach of contract and subsequent legal action.
“Wow. He’s serious about this,” I hear myself saying out loud. One-million dollars to have his baby. It got me thinking – would this baby be made the old-fashioned way or would we do this the high-tech way – like artificial insemination with him being the donor.
I laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts and pick up my cup. The hot chocolate ain’t so hot anymore so I go inside to warm it up. Papa’s up now, sitting at the kitchen table sipping on a cup of black coffee.
“Good morning, Papa,” I say. My voice doesn’t suggest happiness. It’s just monotone.
“Mornin’ Lo.”
I set my cup in the microwave, press the beverage option, then look at papa. He looks refreshed somehow this morning – like in a take-charge way. A put-your-foot-down-and-kick-your-grown-daughter-out kinda way.
The microwave beeps. My drink is hot again. I join papa at the table instead of going back outside.
“Listen to me, Lo,” Papa says. “I had time to sleep on it and I know I said some rough things to you last night. I know I did. I haven’t been good with expressing myself in the best of ways, but I meant what I said. I want you to live your life.”
“I know, Papa, and I have no anger toward you. I had time to think it over and I agree with you. I do need to move out. It’s time. I just need you to promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“That means you will have to crank up that old Ford and get yourself to the doctor on Mondays and Fridays,” I tell him. My dad has a truck, an old, red 1998 F-150 he never drives, but keeps the registration up to date. That’ll be his mode of transportation now which is good since my car bit the dust.
He chuckles. Sips. “And you can take your time finding a place, Lo. I won’t send you on your way with nowhere to go.”
“Appreciate that, Papa, but I’ll figure out something soon. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go apartment hunting,” I say eagerly, knowing I don’t have the first month’s rent or a deposit for an apartment. I’m basically going window shopping today.
I gulp down the rest of my morning drink, then stand up and head for my room. My day is pretty much over and it hasn’t officially begun. Yet, I feel a certain level of optimism – a feeling like this is the first day of the rest of my life.
Chapter Six
Magnus
On weekends, I run twenty miles. Ten on Saturday. Ten on Sunday. So today, Saturday, I ran ten miles which usually takes me a little over an hour. Besides lifting weights a few times a week, it’s the only exercise I get. It’s difficult, but I make it look easy. I need that strenuous, heart-pumping workout in my life. It’s a test of endurance. Physical stamina. It’s a reminder I’m still breathing. My heart’s still pumping. I still have a purpose. For now, at least.
Nearly out of breath, I’m back home, standing in the front yard, lowering the volume of my Bluetooth headphones as they play Party Monster by The Weeknd. Sweat covers my body like a coating of clear polyurethane. I lean forward to perform my ritualistic after-workout stretches when I hear my neighbor, Mrs. Sheffield ask, “You do your usual ten miles today, Magnus?”
I smirk and pretend I’m neighborly. The white lady has a thing for me and her husband knows it.
“Yes, Mrs. Sheffield. Ten miles,” I tell her.
She adjusts her glasses – she’s one of those old women who still use eyewear retainers. She has on a housecoat, what she usually wears, and a pair of slippers.
She stares. I would say she’s undressing me with her eyes, but since I already don’t have on a shirt, my abs are on display. And she’s standing there getting an eye full. She has to be at least fifty-five, maybe early sixties.
I cut my stretches short to get out of her line of sight.
Using a keypad, I enter an eight-digit code to unlock the front door of my house and upon entering, I’m greeted with the aroma of food. The chefs are here – one is cooking lunch, the other, breakfast. I’ve usually decided which one I want by the time I’m out of the shower.
My showers are always long. It’s nothing for me to stay in there for over twenty minutes. After runs, thirty. It’s where I get most of my thinking done. Where I can concentrate in an enclosed space, getting pummeled with water jets and no distractions.
When I step in the shower today, Shiloh’s on my mind. Before I presented her with my proposal, I had asked myself what I’d do if she turned me down, especially since presenting this to another woman wasn’t an option. I figured I’d roll with whatever obstacle she threw my way and find a way around it. Being in business for many years has taught me something about people – anyone can be convinced of anything if the terms were right. Apparently, money wasn’t the force driving Shiloh’s decision-making, even though the girl needed it. My surprise visit to her father’s house last night clued me in on what would influence her – him. The man’s a yapper – told me all his business. Said he needed a kidney transplant and had been on the list for years, suffering through the inconvenience of countless dialysis treatments. If he got bumped up on the list, that would change his life and hers. And so now, I know what card to play when it comes to Shiloh. She easily said no to a million, but she for darn sure wouldn’t turn down a kidney.
After getting out of the shower, clean and satisfied with my strategy, I wrap a towel around my bottom half and walk to the walk-in closet where I find clothes for the day. I won’t leave the house at all this weekend. I have no reason to. I have nowhere to go. Everything I need is right here and if it’s not here, I can make calls to have it delivered.
I’m not one for company. Or parties. Nicoletta used to throw parties and twist my arm to attend galas with her, but I’ve never been that type. I like to work, make money and sleep. Human interaction is no longer a necessity for me. I get enough of it at work.
* * *
Later in the evening, I go to my thirty-seat home theatre room and take in a movie. This theatre is a replica of what you would find at an AMC but smaller with more comfortable seating. Nicoletta used to have a bunch of her friends over for girl’s nights and chick flicks. They’d rather come here than to an actual theatre. These days, the room doesn’t get much use since she’s gone. But today, I decide to use it to watch The Black Panther. I’m sitting alone in the back row in the dark with a bag of microwaved popcorn.
It sucks, but such is my life and has been since the day that forever changed me. All I can do is suffer through it until my child is born. Then, I’ll leave it all behind.
I know there’s nothing left for me here.
I don’t get satisfaction from anyone or anything.
I’m simply existing.
I’m sick of living this way.
Chapter Seven
Shiloh
The weekend has flown by and I�
��m at work feeling defeated. I can’t concentrate on my tasks. I’m too busy doubting my ability to be an adult and take care of myself. Papa had the nerve to compare me to my sister – not the successful one who looks down on us, but Selah, the one who hops from house to house, crashes on people’s dirty couches and calls herself having a good time. She’s never worked. Has never done a thing but find dudes who can support her drug habit and I know what they’re getting from her in exchange. Me, I’m living the right way and I can’t figure out how to maneuver my way into a professional workforce and get out of waitressing. For good! It’s like, I landed this job that I’m not good at but I don’t want to let it go due to fear of the unknown. What if I get a good job and hate it? Then I’m out on my tail with nothing. Minus the drug use, I’d be just like Selah.
Thinking about all of that had me off of my already screwed-up game at work. Today, I hit a new record of getting orders wrong. I dropped a whole tray of food when I slipped on the greasy kitchen floor and the people who had been waiting decided to leave even after Rico tried to appease them by offering a new meal for free. My tips were a reflection of my lack of talent. How was I going to get enough money for a deposit on an apartment off of a few dollars and loose change?
The table I’m working now – there’s a stocky, country-looking white guy who asked me to bring him a bottle of Sriracha. I frowned at him, then continued on to check one of my other tables. I knew I wasn’t going to get a tip from these girls. The lady and her daughter were having some kind of birthday dinner and when I told her we didn’t give out free birthday desserts at Bistro Le Bon, I heard her daughter mumble, “We’ll just have to buy it with the tip we were going to leave her. This is ridiculous.”
“Lo,” Rico says, down behind me.
“What is it, Rico?”
“Did that gentleman over there ask you for a bottle of Sriracha?”
I glance over at the guy. He’s turned red in the face. I look back at Rico and respond, “Yes, he did, but I thought he was joking.”
“Seriously, Lo? Why would you think it was a joke?”
“Because I don’t know what Sriracha is.”
“My goodness, girl.” Rico walks away from me with angry steps.
“Rico, wait—I’m serious. I don’t.” I catch up to him in the kitchen.
He grabs a bottle of red sauce, thrusts it to my chest and says, “You see this. This is Sriracha. If you don’t know that, maybe you shouldn’t be working here.”
“Rico—”
“I’ve tried so many times with you, Lo—given you chance after chance after chance and today was the absolute worst! I can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry, but you’re fired.”
“No, no, no, Rico, you can’t fire me,” I say. My voice screams desperation. “I need this job.”
“No. You need to find something you’re good at. This ain’t it.”
“Can you at least give me time?” I say in full panic mode, begging for a job I don’t like. That I’m not good at. “I’ll take a week off and come back refreshed. I promise I’ll be better. This was just an off night.”
“More like an off year.” He sighs. “Okay, Look. Take your time and get yourself together, Lo, but you’re done for tonight. Now get on out of here.”
I take off my apron, roll it up and stuff it inside my purse along with the lousy twenty-three dollars I made in tips. I don’t count the change. I slide into my coat and head down the street to the bus stop.
It’s cold and I’m screwed.
In addition to finding an apartment, I need a job. Since the job needs to come before the apartment, I have to stay with papa longer than expected. Fine by me, but not so much with him. He said he wasn’t going to kick me out, but I wanted to show him I could make it on my own. Without him. But, you can’t pay rent with air and you definitely can’t pay it with twenty-three dollars and loose change.
“Okay, Lo,” I say to myself. Teeth chattering. It’s so cold out here, I can see my breath. “This is just a minor setback. You’ll be okay. All you have to do is get a job. A good one.” I know that’s easier said than done. How much money can I make with a high school diploma and no experience? Then it dawns on me.
I need to find someone who’s been searching for a roommate!
At this point, I know I won’t be able to afford my own place and bills, but I can afford to rent a room in somebody’s house. “That’s what I’ll do.”
That settles me temporarily until I think about who I may encounter on this new quest for a roomie. What if I end up with someone I didn’t like? Some chick who tried to kill me and assume my identity? A person who liked to party all the time? Who was messy? I couldn’t have that.
I rub my cold hands together as I approach the bus stop hoping the friction would help to warm them. When I get closer to the stop, I freeze in my tracks. I see him – Magnus – sitting where I usually sit when I’m waiting for the bus. He’s wearing a long black coat that smells like money and has nothing on his head. The small S-curls must be keeping it warm. He has on those same leather gloves again. He looks up as I approach like he was expecting my arrival.
I have no reason to think he wasn’t. A man who drives a Bentley doesn’t need public transportation.
“What are—?”
“Here,” he says, quieting me. He tosses a pair of gloves my way – brown leather ones. They still have the price tag on them – a hundred and twenty-five dollars. “No thanks,” I say, tossing them back to him.
“Don’t let your pride get the best of you, Shiloh. Your hands are cold.”
He’s right. My hands are cold. They’re so cold, they’re beginning to ache and I’ve only been out here for a few minutes.
He tosses the gloves back. “Put the gloves on.”
I pop off the price tag and slide my fingers into them, then sit a space away from him and ask, “What are you doing here sitting at the bus stop?”
“Waiting for an answer from you. I told you we’d talk again on Monday. Today’s Monday, correct?”
“Yeah, today’s Monday. You said you were coming to the bistro.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not. I’m surprised you’re here and not there,” I say pointing to the restaurant. “You come across like a man who does what he says he’ll do. You said you were going to come to the restaurant. But you’re here. Sitting at a bus stop. Why? Does it make you feel like one of the common people? Like literally putting yourself in my shoes?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I sat in the parking lot at the bistro and I saw that you were already having a hard time, so I didn’t want to disturb you any further.”
“You saw I was having a hard time. How could you possibly know my mood from the parking lot?”
“I’ve learned your expressions when you’re agitated and flustered. I’ve watched you for three months, Shiloh. I thought I told you that.”
“You did. Look, I read your lil’ agreement and my answer is still no. I’m not having your baby. I—I’m still at a loss for words that you would even think to ask a woman to do something like that.”
He cracks an arrogant smile. “Why’s that so farfetched? I have a problem and I found a solution to that problem.”
“And what is your problem exactly?” I ask turning to look at him since from the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s already looking at me.
He attaches his vision to mine when he answers, “I want a child and I’m not in any committed relationship.”
“Then get in a committed relationship. Fall in love with somebody. Get married, then have a baby. It’s better that way. I know you’re not hard-pressed to find a woman. I’m sure women throw themselves at you. Literally.”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Then, there you have it. Go take your pick of those women. Not me. I can’t be anybody’s mama right now anyway, and I for sure will never have a baby by a man who’s not mine. That I can guarante
e you and I don’t care how many millions, billions or quadrillions you have.”
He’s quiet. He rubs his gloved hands together and peers out onto Central Avenue as cars breeze by, pushing more cold air our way. Silence thickens between us. People walk buy in full winter gear. A Hispanic woman pushes a stroller by. It’s covered with a blanket but this ain’t the kind of weather an infant should be in.
I glance down the street, looking for the bus.
No luck. Crap!
“Okay,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “You don’t want money. Alright. What if I made you some guarantees?”
Come on, bus. Please. I’m already not in the mood to talk since screwing up at work and he’s sitting here like he’s trying to talk me into doing something I don’t want to do.
“Magnus, there’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind—”
“Your father needs a kidney,” he says.
Just the mention of my father needing a kidney has made me eat my own words because I would do anything to get my father a kidney – a new chance at living a productive, happy, healthy life.
“How do you know my father needs a kidney?”
“He told me, and I will personally see to it that your father gets bumped up on the kidney transplant list. In addition, the one-million-dollar offer still stands and to sweeten the deal, I’ll give you room and board in my fully furnished, private guesthouse. Oh, and the Porsche is still yours, too.”