by Daisy Jane
5
Brooks
I wanted to know more about this girl, immediately. When you’re wealthy, you don’t have for phone calls, or wait in lines and your table is always ready. I sure as shit wasn’t about to wait another week to see this girl again. As it was, I had meetings scheduled for next Tuesday, the day the maids come, so then I’d be playing hooky just to talk to her. Weighing out the options, it seemed more reasonable to call the agency and get her information, if they’d even give it to me, than to cancel a full day of work and wait around my house, hoping the fucking maid shows up.
It’d been a few years since I’d signed the paperwork with the agency I was currently using, which supplied me with housecleaners, gardeners, lawn care and personal home management. I didn’t even know for sure who to call to get her information. And I did realize there was a good chance they wouldn’t give it to me. After all, to them I was just a dirty old man who liked the looks of a sweet young maid. I wouldn’t want them to give me the number, either.
Ed, the head gardener, walked past the side of the house, a potted pygmy palm in one hand. They all were contracted through the same agency, and though I didn’t make a point to regularly discuss things with Ed, I knew this was my first and best shot.
I made my way out of the slider, startling him as it slammed back against the inside track. Taking a breath, I dragged a hand through my hair and then smoothed it down my face, pulling my glasses off and tucking them into the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
“Ed,” I nodded, outstretching my hand to his. I clearly didn’t do this enough, because when he looked at my hand, he looked behind him, as if there was probably another, more important Ed standing there, one I’d actually want to talk to. Jesus, I really am an asshole.
“Sir?” his tone was unsteady and questioning and he slipped his worn, soil-coated hand into mine. His shake was strong, though, and I respected that. Everyone hates the man who puts their hand in yours and lets it go limp like a wet noodle.
“Do you happen to know the name of the um, housecleaners who work here, through your agency?”
As I asked, I realized I had no idea how much or little interaction these workers had with one another. Just because they all work for you doesn’t mean they all get together and hang out, you jackass, I scolded myself.
I’d never second-guessed anything about myself, not really. But this girl, trying to find out who she was, it had me behaving in a way I didn’t recognize. I liked having someone kick me into gear. It made me feel young, it made me… feel. Period.
He surprised me, pulling his hand from mine then reaching back for his wallet, rummaging through to find a single sticky-note, blue, folded in half.
“I know them both,” he smiled, pleased with himself and somewhat relieved that he was able to answer my question.
“Here,” he outstretched the blue note to me and I unfolded it, reading the handwriting scrawled across.
Britta 127 S. First Street, Apt 2B
“She’s the new one,” he added, referring to the girl from the kitchen. “Other one is her cousin. Got her the job.”
The other one. That must’ve been the dark-haired girl that drove the silver car. I’d recalled seeing her maybe once before, when Mavis was still around.
“What happened to Mavis?” I wondered aloud, trying to think of when the staffing changed.
“She moved abroad. That’s all we know. Three months ago,” he shrugged, clearly not interested in Mavis at all. Neither was I. All I wanted to know was how long Britta had been in my house, under my nose, without my knowing.
“Three months ago, is that when Britta started?” I asked, following the delicate lines of her cursive, rereading her name for the fifth time. Britta.
“Yes, sir,” he said, crouching to set the potted palm in the soil near the pool. “Britta tutors my son. First day I met her here at your place, she introduced herself. I told her about my kids, that I had a high school aged son who was struggling with his school work. She offered to tutor him for free. That’s why I have her address. I take him to her place twice a week, usually. I try and fix things while I’m there, as a way of repaying her, but sometimes she won’t even let me do that.”
She tutors a high school kid for free. It surprises me that she does this. Your early twenties are the most selfish time of your life, everyone knows that. And here she is giving up two evenings a week to help a family she just met.
“She’s a good girl,” Ed added, rising from his kneepad on the concrete, dusting his gloves off.
He knew so much about her. He’d been to her place. Unexpected jealousy climbs my neck and I clench my jaw, force a little smile.
“Is this downtown?” I held up the note with her name and address and Ed looked at me once, quickly but not so fast that I didn’t see the hesitation in his eyes, then nodded. He no doubt thinks I’m a creepy rich guy who wants to pay to have some maid fantasy-fulfilled.
“Yes, sir. You need to me to take something to her? I’m going tomorrow.” Now he seems protective, as if he doesn’t want me going to her place. Normally, this would greatly annoy me. But Ed worked for a few other assholes like me, how was he supposed to know I wasn’t like them? For all he knew, I was just like Ted Nolan down the road, whom Ed worked for as well. Ted “I’ll stick it in anything with a pulse and I don’t care who knows” Nolan, as I like to call him. In a way, it pleased me that Ed was protective of Britta. That she had someone looking out for her. I made a mental note to give Ed a big Christmas bonus.
“No, that’s okay Ed. May I keep this?” I asked, and before he could respond, I’d slipped the paper in my pocket. He’d been taking his son to her place twice a week for three months, surely, he remembered how to get there.
“Thanks, Ed. And, good work,” I added, though it felt disingenuous, even though it wasn’t. The timing was perhaps poor but I did truly appreciate and respect the work that they did for me.
In my Britta-induced haze, I drifted up to the third floor, went into my office and locked the door behind me. I don’t know why I locked it. No one was in the house for the rest of the day, but it was a habit that stuck with me. My last ‘girlfriend’ was fucking nosey and I hated it, so I locked doors. That was four months ago and I was still doing it. Habitually locking people out, I guess.
I sat at my desk, emails flooding my screen with work I wasn't in the mood to do. All I'd done my whole life was work. I didn't have a spouse and kids to fill my spare time, so instead, I filled my spare time with more work. Well, and, writing. Or trying to write.
I didn't claim to be a writer but writing was what I'd wanted to do when I was in college. My dad was in finance, smart with money and steered me into investing. He told me investing made "big money" and money made a life, not "writing how you feel in hopes that people understand". I'd taken his advice, though looking back I realized I had never really made a choice on my own, rather, I accepted the choices that were presented to me. With my father, it was unspoken but clear: get a job in investing or I won't pay for school.
My Dad had been gone for many years and I’d like to think I made him proud while he was here. Though he wasn't pleased that I never remarried, the copious amounts of money I made did please him. Wealth, to him, meant guaranteed happiness. Maybe it was the old way of living, and maybe that's what success actually looked like in the 70s. But I had been wealthy for many years and I'd grown more and more unhappy with each passing year.
It was okay, I knew, to occasionally be lonely. That was part of life. But it was how normal it felt now, to be so profoundly alone that my entire being ached, feeling hollow and devoid—that was what scared me. That I'd grown accustomed to my loneliness and had simply accepted it.
A house full of people and I was still alone.
A warm body in bed next to me and I was still alone.
The back nine of a beautiful golf course with executives and I was still alone.
The rush I’d gotten from seeing Britta, how th
e warmth of her soul radiated when I stood next to her in the kitchen, those brief, fleeting moments—it all made me think of my Dad, and his advice that investing and money would create happiness. As I had grown more and more comfortable with the overwhelming feeling of loneliness, I realized how wrong he was. And how uncomfortable I was with being so complacent in my current life.
6
Brooks
Closing my computer, I made my way downstairs, grabbed my wallet and keys and slipped on some socks and shoes from the mudroom. As soon as I was in my car, her address filled the screen and I started driving.
I hadn't been downtown in ages. Last time I was downtown it was so fucking overrun with drug users and pan handlers that I opted out of being an angel investor in a struggling t-shirt printing company. The location was cheap but the number of vagrants and crime in the area deterred me. I couldn't imagine Britta—the thoughtful young woman from the kitchen who recited my words like poetic gold—living fucking downtown. I didn't want to imagine it, either.
After an aggravating drive on the freeway, I found myself navigating the downtown streets, hunting for South First. My car alerted me I'd arrived at my destination but once I sidled up to the curb and peered up out of the passenger side window, I'd wondered if Ed had given me the wrong information. But, no, surely, he knew where she lived if he went there twice a week? And then, just as I was about to pull away, I spotted a small rectangle sitting on top of the Chinese restaurant sign. Apartments above. It was painted in red on a piece of wood, and it was so subtle I was sure that no one would see it if they were just walking by. That reassured me somewhat, hoping that none of the vagrants from the street ever wandered up to her apartment.
Making my way through the outdoor seating, past the restaurant entrance, I gave a nod of acknowledgement to a kid taking a drag of a cigarette at the bottom of the stairs.
"You sure you're in the right place, my man?" he asked, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling nicotine towards me. Greasy unkempt dark hair with clean shaven face, he pulled a breath of smoke from the cigarette again. He wore a white tank top which fit his torso like a glove and he had sweat shorts and high tops on and as he gripped the railing to the stairs, I wondered if this was Britta's boyfriend. My fists curled at my sides, thinking those rough, cigarette smoking hands got to cradle her soft face and kiss her sweet lips.
"I am," I said, walking up the stairs past him. I didn't turn back to see, but I heard him follow me up. Once I found her apartment door, one of the only three on the second floor, I turned to face him. He tossed the cigarette down to the ground and stepped on it, blowing one final exhale of smoke into my face.
"Who you looking for?" he asked, narrowing his eyes on me. He was trying to intimidate me, I think, but he was short and therefore had to look up at me, which was more childlike than intimidating.
"Britta," I said, wondering if I should be sharing her name with him, in case he was a stranger.
"Oh, no shit?" he smirked, pulling a stray cigarette out from behind his ear, resting it between his lips.
"You know her?" I asked, watching him pull a Bic lighter from his pocket and light his smoke.
"That's my girl’s cousin. But Britta ain't home. Sliced her hand open at work or some shit. She's getting stitched up," he said, this time turning his head to exhale the smoke. A sign of respect, perhaps. I didn't care to decipher. Britta wasn't here and her hand was worse off than I thought.
"What hospital?" I asked, my tone stressed.
"I don't know. Give me twenty bucks and I'll find out."
He smirked, a strand of oily hair falling over his dark eyes. Something told me this is how he made his money, swindling and hassling people. Immediately, I pulled a crisp bill from my wallet. I don't care about twenty dollars, or how this individual makes money. I just want to see Britta.
"Aight, let's find out," he said, climbing the next set of stairs, pushing open the first door we came to, which was directly above Britta's. He popped his head in and shouted "Mel!" to which a female voice bounced back, irritated and sharp, immediately.
"If you want to talk to me Donny, come inside but do not fucking shout at me from the door!" the voice shouted back, and the irony was not lost on me.
He turned to face me, giving me an indifferent shrug, then dropped the cigarette to the concrete, stepping on it.
"Hold up," he said, wandering into the apartment, leaving the door open. Glancing inside, I saw him wrap his hands around the waist of a girl with dark hair, her hands against his chest, shoving him away. She looked at me over Donny's shoulder and instantly, I recognized her. The girl with the little silver car. Shoving Donny off her, she made her way to the door, her eyes narrowed on me. I was learning that everyone that worked for me possibly found me to be sketchy and creepy. Interesting.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone clipped, annoyed.
"I'm looking for Britta. Donny here has told me that she's getting stitches and it's my fault that she's hurt her hand. I startled her while she was cleaning my home. I'd just like to know what hospital she's at so I can take care of the cost," I said, watching her process me carefully. I didn't know if she distrusted me, I'd never really even met her, but she clearly wasn't happy that I was trying to find Britta.
"You shouldn't know where she lives, you know?" she said, leaning against the doorframe. "It's not really fair. We gotta sign NDA's for all you guys but then you can just show up, know our names and how we live and track us down. Doesn't seem right."
"You know where I live," I said to her, unsure of what her real point was. I could see in her eyes she was concerned, though I don't think it had anything to do with me knowing where she lived. “Like I said, I feel bad about the incident at work, and just want to cover the cost.”
"Listen, dude, I don't even know what your name is or what your whole deal is but—Britta is twenty years old and she's already been through a shit load of stuff and I know how guys like you operate."
"Maybe he likes her, Mel," Donny called from behind, sticking the partially smoked cigarette back behind his ear. Ah, we were in this together now apparently. "He gave me twenty bucks to tell him what hospital she's at. Seems like he really likes her." Twenty bucks meant to them that I liked her. I sighed.
The girl flipped around, a vein bulging from her neck. "What! I fucking work for this guy, Donny! You want me to lose my job? Lord knows you certainly aren't gonna pay the bills! Or your own debt!" she looked back at me with an anger so intense I felt my head jerk back from her stare, then she redirected her wrath back to Donny. “And twenty bucks is nothing to guys like this. Trust me.” She turned to face me and, as much as I knew it pained her, she apologized to me. She wasn’t sorry, but she wanted her job and she thought she was protecting her cousin. I understand all that.
“Look, I’m sorry if I was too direct with you. And, Donny,” she shouted over her shoulder, the greasy-haired guy standing up to her call. “Give him his money back,” she bossed, chin raised.
“No,” I said, “it’s fine. And you’re right. I probably shouldn’t have come here. I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” I said, not even knowing if it was the truth or not. I did want to make sure she was okay but what did I think was going to happen? She’d be on her stoop, waiting for my old ass to come and rescue her? She had an apartment. A life. She had said she needed to keep the job. All I was doing was muddling the waters for her. Her cousin was right.
“Listen, I do want to pay the hospital bill. That was my fault. Will you at least give her this and have her call me?” I pulled my wallet out and handed her a business card.
She looked down at the card for a few seconds then looked back up at me.
“Investor huh,” she tilted her head and looked me up and down.
“Not what you were expecting?” I asked. “What’s your name?”
“Melody,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, her eyes still focused on me, tightening in. Of the few impressions
I’d already given her, I could see she wasn’t impressed. And if this was Britta’s cousin, it stood to reason that I should probably get her on my good side.
“Not what you expected?” I asked again.
Leaning in, clearly not wanting Donny to be part of the conversation anymore, she whispered, “we thought maybe you were a writer.”
“What made you think that?” I asked, fully aware that Britta had read at least one thing I’d written. She ran away so quickly I didn’t get to talk to her about it. Why was she repeating it? I’d written that months ago and I didn’t even know I kept it. I didn’t know where she saw it but somehow, she made it sound eloquent and I wondered what it meant, to her.
“You seem smart Brooks. I’m sure you can figure it out,” her tone was cool, nearly clipped, as if I’d worn out my welcome and she wanted me to go. I took the hint and thanked her for her help and again, asked her to pass my card to Britta. Though with her skepticism of me, I wondered if Britta would ever even know I came by.
As I drove back to my house, I thought about that scent that had driven me crazy for the last three months. It had been her, all along, and for some reason, it sent a jolt of heat through my veins. Poetic, I thought. But it was highly unlikely that a beautiful young girl like her would want anything to do with a man of my age. Big house and money aside, Britta didn’t strike me as a creature who went looking for a sugar daddy.
Pulling into my garage, I thought of all the questions I’d wished I’d asked Melody about her cousin, but then I was glad I didn’t. No, I wanted to learn about her first-hand, face-to-face, preferably not holding broken glass or while she was working in my house. This whole day had felt off, but for once, I wasn’t overrun with loneliness. Something about chasing Britta had me more excited than ever.
I’d already accepted that she wouldn’t be interested in me. Or she could be a Donny-type and be falsely interested in hopes of getting something from me. Or worse, she could end up feeling like the last handful of women had felt… good at first but then, for some reason, leaving me feeling cold and disconnected. And all of this could lead to a toppling tower of disappointment.