The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  “What was all that about?” He grinned inquisitively.

  The rock in my shoe.

  “What was all ‘what’ about?” Poker face. He knew who she was, a local like us, he just had no context of our relationship. Matt had come into my life at the time that she’d last left it, and the brief minute or two home wasn’t the time or place for that story. I promised I’d explain later.

  Isabel was her name. Isabel Monroe, the crown jewel of the city. She was the youngest of four siblings, all brothers. Her father, Dallas, was a veterinarian and played in a popular band in Tallahassee. Their mom, Sue, was stunning herself. Her brothers, Owen, Wyatt, and Landon, were all heartbreakers in their own right. Growing up in Tallahassee, if you were a girl, you had a crush on the Monroe brothers, and if you were a guy you were in love with Isabel. It was like that for all of us. The family was looked up to by everyone in town, with their roots going deep into its history.

  The youngest of the boys, Owen, was my age, Wyatt two years older than us, and Landon four years. All three kept catches on their arm, the cream of the crop of girls in Tallahassee. Isabel spent her youth on the futile search for a boy that could hold a candle to her brothers and father.

  She was a dream girl, the most crushed-on-jealousy-inducing one the world had ever seen, as far as I was concerned. I’d often wonder if she knew the extent to which people adored her, if her bashful nature was actually genuine. By the time I met her, she was used to having teenage boys fawn over her, and girls of all ages trying to befriend her just to get a bit closer to her brothers.

  When we met, she was just over 5’, tan skin, athletic body, and the most heavenly face I’d ever seen. It was accentuated by a perfect, distinct widow’s peak, long gorgeous eyelashes, a button nose, deep, charming dimples, and flowing Cherokee oak hair that had never been touched by dye. She spoke with a mild southern twang, and had a radiance about her that could set a room on fire.

  When the time and place would come, I’d tell Matt about my vixen from a past life. I’d tell him how she was the one that got away, a relationship never fulfilled. I thought of her often, and was shocked to find her on this night, at this place.

  We got home and were greeted at the door by my dog, Juice. Within seconds Isabel was sitting on the floor, hugging and kissing him as if he was her own. I had long suspected she was his favorite too.

  The four of us hung out for a while longer before Isabel and I retired to my room. I felt the same familiar butterflies that I always had as we laid down next to each other. I tried to calm them, and listened carefully as she began her story.

  6.

  Late Spring, 1998

  While my mother was in Tallahassee fighting cancer, raising me, and working a full-time job, my dad and Frankie were creating their family with two new daughters, Hannah and Sahar. I always wanted siblings and was excited when they were born. I would want to visit them often, either in Mobile, or an hour west, in my stepmom’s hometown of Lucedale.

  Some of my fondest memories growing up were at my aunt’s house in that Mississippi town. They had a large estate in the middle of the woods, with a big family, and three older cousins that I looked up to. Jason, Jeremy, and Jeanna were their names, and they treated me like their own. As a young child, my family referred to me by my middle name, Kaleb. It wasn’t until I met my cousins that I wanted to be called Josh because it sounded more like their names. They helped culture and shape me, introduced me to movies I loved like Forrest Gump and Good Will Hunting.

  Their family life was a stark contrast to the upbringing that I was used to. I was attracted to the idea of having a large clan, with sons and daughters to make grandchildren and a lofty family tree. I wished my parents had stuck together, like my cousins’ parents had, and became enamored with the concept of romantic love, the idea of there being one person out there for all of us.

  I came home from many of these trips, unable to hide my excitement at how much fun I’d had, how grand the house was, with their huge yard and swimming pool. I’m sure my mom was happy I got to experience those things, but looking back I see how it could’ve upset her. I’m sure sometimes she wished she could have given me those things that I enjoyed so much.

  While she couldn’t provide me with a big family, she made up for it by trying to instill values in other ways. She would force me to volunteer (how’s that for an oxymoron?) wherever it was she was working, stressing the importance of giving back. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I look at it now with pride and admiration at what she was trying to teach.

  She had a special way of doing that, conveying things to me. One day, around the age my mom was starting Chemotherapy, our cable went out. I thought the TV was broken and that it would come back on shortly. My mom said differently.

  “I had to shut it off, sweetheart,” she said. “It costs money, and it’s a luxury we can’t afford.”

  At the time, I got a weekly allowance for helping with chores around the house. I asked her if I could use that to help pay the cable bill.

  “You could. Or maybe we can figure a way for you to make your own money while keeping your allowance.”

  My mind wandered, trying to ponder clever ways I could earn money for us. I remember there being an after school store that sold candy and popsicles to students after class was out. I couldn’t carry around popsicles in my backpack all day, but I could damn sure fit some candy in there. I asked my mom if I could buy a big bag of it at the grocery store with my allowance. She said yes, and I took it to school the next day to sell for cheaper than the school was offering.

  It didn’t take long for me to get caught by my 4th grade teacher, who was awfully concerned by it. It was highly frowned upon, my teacher explained to my mom, for a student to be selling candy, or anything for that matter, at school at such a young age. My mom didn’t understand what the big deal was. I sold chocolate for school fundraisers door to door every semester for the school in efforts to outsell classmates. The teacher advised I devote my efforts elsewhere, and suggested a local speech contest. I was interested.

  I asked my mom what I should write about.

  “What do you want to write about?” she asked back.

  “Well, what do you write about?”

  “Nowadays it’s only things for work.”

  “What if I write about your work?”

  I didn’t know what exactly she did at her job. I just knew it was something helping people. Folks were always thanking her for her help when we were at her work functions. It had an impact on me, her status in the community.

  She suggested a heavy topic. She’d seen several cases of domestic abuse recently at her job, and thought it should be something I should learn about. I didn’t know where to start.

  “Well, you tell people the facts, then you tell them how you feel about it, then finally what you think we should do about it.” She helped with much along the way. It was weighty content for a 4th grader, but there I was, taking my speech around the county, winning local and regional contests, doing my best to champion a cause. The seed of putting pen to paper had been planted. She was proud, and decided it was time for the next step in manhood.

  I turned 10 years old, and my gift that year was a lawn mower. Looking back now, it was another amazing attempt at instilling character traits that would pay dividends later in life. At the time, I was not thrilled.

  “Mom! What the heck am I gonna do with this?”

  “Well, for one you’re gonna mow our lawn with it. And two, you can start making some money for yourself. You’re old enough.”

  More work didn’t sound like fun, but she insisted. It wasn’t as much about the money as it was about teaching me, not just about independence, but interdependence, pulling weight and helping those around you.

  I could help with cable, maybe even some movie channels, I thought. In the midst of trying to get myself excited to push a lawn mower around in the hot Florida sun, I came across a magazine for a department store, selling a
n above ground pool for $899.99. That became my goal. I was either very ambitious or delusional. Realistic thinking was the most often traveled path to mediocrity, I’d learn later.

  I started around door to door, asking each neighbor if I could mow their lawn for them weekly. I printed out flyers and stapled them to light posts around the neighborhood. I managed to get a good amount of work, and saved up a few hundred dollars. I never got the pool I wanted, but valuable lessons were learned. I knew then that if there was anything I wanted, it was best to just go out and get it.

  I continued selling candy to kids around my neighborhood, away from the supervision of nosey teachers. It wasn’t as much money as mowing lawns, but not as much work either.

  Hell, I didn’t even like candy.

  7.

  “Sometimes junkies fall asleep,” she told me, “and I happened to fall asleep in the middle of using.” We hadn’t gotten to the extent of what she meant by “using,” but I didn’t want to interrupt.

  There I was, in bed with a girl I wasn’t even sure I’d ever see again. Like most around her, I’d given up hope of the person I once knew. She’d turned into someone else entirely. I had a hard time taking in the things she was telling me.

  “And that’s how they found me, overdosed, asleep in the car.”

  They were the police, and the incident she was describing was an acute OD she’d suffered just weeks ago. After being rushed to the hospital, she was taken to Leon County Jail, on several drug charges, and a count of paraphernalia.

  We’d all used together in high school, to varying degrees. I had dealt with substance abuse myself and seen dozens of cases in friends. I knew she’d had problems, but wasn’t sure how far down the rabbit hole she’d traveled.

  Her drug of choice was opiates, which she’d already visited three rehabs for, before finally being taken to jail. There she sat, for what she hoped would be the final time, suffering opiate withdrawals with no methadone.

  Hell on Earth was how she described it, waking up on a concrete floor and realizing what had happened. She explained the terror, anxiety, and physical pain in such detail that it sent shivers down my spine. She was only 21.

  Look how the mighty have fallen.

  “I tried to quit every day,” she said, “and every night I gave up. I don’t even know how it got to this point.”

  “What about the rehabs?”

  “They didn’t help. All I did at those places was learn how to do drugs better.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I first got admitted, I had a problem. I’d discovered roxys and oxys, and got carried away eating them. When I went to rehab, I was surrounded by actual junkies, who explained how great drugs could really be, if only I used them right. After the first time I got out, I relapsed in days. Of all the times I’d done roxys, I had never snorted or smoked one. And I was curious.” I didn’t like where the story was going.

  “I was still living with my parents, and I got caught using again,” she said. “And they sent me to a longer program, at Shands in Gainesville.” Shands was one of the best hospitals in the nation, and very expensive.

  “I spent a few months there, and got out and moved in with Landon.” Landon was her oldest brother and was living in Gainesville at the time, finishing Veterinary school like their dad. “That didn’t last long either before I relapsed again, and got taken out of state.” Out of state was to Georgia, at a program called “Bridges of Hope.”

  “After finishing Bridges, I came back to Tallahassee and moved back in with my dad.”

  “So the paraphernalia they found, that was a pipe you freebased with?” The word freebase was such a nasty word, I shuddered as it rolled off my tongue.

  “No.”

  She got quiet for the first time in the night, looking to wish away the question.

  “What was it?” All signs should’ve pointed to me not having to ask. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “I was shooting up when I fell asleep, Josh.” She sounded so shameful and embarrassed. I struggled to contain my shock.

  “They found you with a fucking needle in your arm?”

  “In my hand. I used to shoot into my hand.” She gently rubbed at the scar tissue on the small vein opposite her palm.

  My heart sank. I was dumbfounded. We both laid in silence for a few moments. I had so many more questions. Feeling the moment getting too heavy, I asked an insignificant one.

  “Well, where were you?”

  “In the parking lot.”

  “What parking lot?”

  “Pockets.”

  “You had a fucking overdose in the parking lot that we just left?”

  “Well, the movie theater lot next to it.” I sat, speechless.

  “I have to go back,” she said after a few moments of silence.

  “Back where?”

  “Back to court. I still haven’t gotten my sentence. My parents refused to bail me out when I got arrested, and the judge finally let me out after my last court date.”

  “Well, what do you think is gonna happen?”

  “My public defender says they will offer me a few years of probation or a few months of jail.”

  “You know your probation is going to have drug tests.”

  “I’m not going to choose probation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want this behind me.”

  “You’re going to go to jail? You think that’s a good idea?” I had been in Leon County Jail, and the thought of her stuck there for three months didn’t sit well.

  “I’ve been in institutions before, one more is not going to kill me.” She had a point.

  “Okay, Thug Life.” I joked, trying to make light of the situation. There was a difference between a luxurious rehab and bologna sandwiches for 90 days. She’d soon find out.

  8.

  Spring, 1999

  I must have displayed signs of Godlessness early, because I was often asked by my stepmom’s family if I’d found Jesus. I began seeing a counselor when my mom became ill and confided in him about phrases I heard that confused me. He told me that God was something that many people looked to, to cope with life’s events. While he said He wasn’t real, I spent years of my life waiting for everyone to finally tell me the jig was up, that deep down no one really believed the stuff they were saying. Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, I assumed this too would pass.

  I tried to ask questions and understand what made them believe, but my skepticism was met not with answers, but instead with more church, more youth services, more drilling it into my head that I needed God. In their doctrine, curiosity was the opposite of faith, and the two seeming mutually exclusive made me resent it.

  I had moved on to reading things by people I knew were real. I enjoyed being perplexed by Agatha Christie mysteries, having my imagination run wild in Michael Crichton science fictions and gripping suspense of John Grisham novels. If I didn’t know the word in a book I was reading, I would keep a dictionary in my desk to look it up. I liked being called on in class to read, to show others my proficiency. I liked standardized testing, quantifying a pecking order of intelligence, and being recognized for it.

  I enjoyed science fairs at school, and always wanted to know what it was the older kids were learning. I was class president, and if I didn’t know something, I would pretend until I did. One of my teachers, a splendid lady named Mrs. Frinks, would take me around the school to perform different projects and experiments. Together we’d administer arithmetic tests to students under various stimuli, such as classical music, or rock’n’roll, or sounds of birds chirping. Sometimes I’d race her or other teachers on the same tests. She challenged the class and me to make bridges out of nothing but spaghetti and rubber cement, or see who could devise the most efficient package to drop raw eggs from atop of the school without them breaking. She once showed the class a childbirth video to help us understand the cycle of life. She peaked my curiosity from a young age, encouraged the cerebral.


  I attempted to read parts of the bible, but at the same time I heard about religious stories in church, I was learning about how thousands, and even sometimes hundreds of years ago, we believed the earth was flat, and the center of our universe. I wondered how much multiple authors writing a book from 2,000 years ago could be trusted.

  During my summers in Tallahassee, I attended a camp run out of a local church, called East Hill. It was actually my idea, as my first childhood friend went there, a Hawaiian kid named Kane. I told my mom I wanted to do the same, and she was delighted to be able to tell my dad I was going to a Christian camp.

  I really enjoyed the place. It wasn’t overly faith-based. There was chapel once a week, but the rest of the days were great, alternating between video games, swimming pools, and an indoor gymnasium. I went back every year for as long as they would let me.

  My mom would want to go to church sometimes, though not often, and when we did it was to a liberal, non-denominational church, named Unity. People there didn’t dress in suits. They had on sandals, and tie dye shirts, with long hair. It seemed more like a hangout for hippies and lesbian women. They met every Sunday like traditional church, had programs and sang songs, but didn’t preach the same gospel as the Southern Baptist churches I had to go to in Alabama and Mississippi. They didn’t try to scare folks with threats of burning in hell or eternal damnation, or try to seduce people into being good by offering eternal bliss.

  She always tried to give me free reign to form opinions for myself, something I’d grow to be grateful for later in life. She never tried to shove her beliefs down my throat. Sometimes I think she was unsure of them herself. When asked about God, she once told me she liked to imagine him up there, making tally marks for all the good and bad things people had done. She told me to make sure the good outweighed the bad, that being good was important to feeling good.