by Rush, Ava
“Eduardo, with all due respect, it's not a hando–” I started. I didn't know why, or even how, my voice had become so timid. No one in that ward would have ever believed I'd earned the nickname the Steel Woman. How could that quiet as a mouse, submissive woman be the same one who brought a billionaire oil magnate to tears with her cross examination? Or the same woman who battled it out in the courtroom, winning the unwinnable case against a tobacco company?
“You people are all the same,” Eduardo said, shaking his head with a sarcastic smile. “Poor little Latinos, can't afford healthcare.”
“Now hang on a minute.” Outraged, I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I'm an employer paying for my employee's healthcare. This has nothing to do with charity.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “Keep your private room. She doesn't need it.”
Now we were squared up, and I was peering up at him, all six foot two and bulging muscles. It was as though I'd finally met my match, in a nineteen-year-old boy. Who would have thought it?
Lupita had become a part of the background, as everyone else around us had.
“That's your call. She stays out here, she'll be seen in maybe four or five hours...” I said it with feigned apathy, then watched closely as his brooding face softened slightly. For all his pride, all his hang ups, he knew the healthcare system and he wasn't prepared to play with his mother's life.
He grumbled. “I'm going to get some cocoa. Mama, you want anything?” He purposefully turned his back on me when he spoke, and although my throat was as dry as cloth, I knew I wouldn't get a drink out of him.
He whisked off, but not before shooting me another hateful look, which I was sure he'd been perfecting for years.
“Please forgive him, Miss Victoria,” Lupita said. “He doesn't like me working and thinks every boss is the Antichrist.”
“It's okay, really. He's worried about you, as he should be.” I waved a hand as if dismissing her son's insolence, whilst deep down wanting to throttle the boy. I wondered how he'd gone through life being so angry, because his fiery temper clearly wasn't something new. And at his size, with those massive arms and legs, he'd probably been every troublemaker's nightmare. He didn't look like one to concede in an argument. How I'd managed to get him to was beyond me. But hey, I did that for a living.
“In an ideal world he would want me to sit at home with my feet up watching Las Amores de Nuestro Mundo.” She laughed. “I would die of boredom.”
Although the name wasn't familiar to me, I suspected that she was referring to a telenovela – the amores part gave it away. I had to agree with her on that; who wanted to waste away watching TV when they could be out there doing something, anything?
Her face suddenly became serious. “I don't know when I'll be out of here, Miss Victoria. I think my body does need to rest–”
“Of course,” I said sincerely. “Take as long as you need.” I didn't know what sort of life I'd fashion without her there cleaning up after me, telling me funny stories about the women in her pottery class, teaching me how to be efficient in my house – a job my mother had been too busy to do when I was a child. I'd have to contact the agency to send a replacement when I got home.
She seemed to read my mind. “I know you will need someone to fill in for me. I was thinking mi hijo...”
No amount of poker face practice could have prepared me for that. I gave her an unblinking, wide-eyed look of astonishment, utterly speechless.
“He's a good boy, Miss Victoria,” Lupita added quickly. “And he works hard. You can trust him.”
“Lu, I–”
“He needs a job while he's in night school, and my wage is the only money we have coming in.”
“But has he ever done this kind of thing before?” It was the only question I could manage, though I had a million others.
“At home, yes. He is very reliable.”
She sounded sincere, but then so would I about my own child. She would be blind to his faults like most mothers, imagining that he could do anything he put his mind to, when in reality he was probably no more helpful than any other boy his age.
“What makes you think he'd even want to work for me?” was my next question, and one I could only ask once I'd temporarily silenced the screaming, doubtful voice of reason telling me how fucking absurd this suggestion was.
“Because I will ask him to.”
Oh, so it was as simple as that, was it? Well, I didn't buy it for a second. After witnessing Eduardo's resolve, his unwillingness to let up, I had a hard time believing he'd do anything asked of him if he didn't want to. Thus, it was on that basis and reasoning that I took one long, pitiful look at Lupita and said with a sigh, “Fine. If he wants a job, he's got one.” And good luck getting him to turn up for it.
My cellphone's ring-tone infuriated the crap out of me; I'd never gotten around to changing the default tone and had been stuck with a silly, high-frequency chirping sound, like a thousand birds being choked to death. It wasn't especially displeasing, but at half six in the morning when you knew you still had an hour's sleep left before rising time, and when you'd only managed four hours of sleep to begin with, any tone, especially fucking strangled birds, sounded loathsome.
“I'll be over the moon when you nomads finally return to the States,” I answered, pressing loud speaker and setting my cell on the pillow beside my head. I closed my eyes again, my voice groggy with sleep. I didn't try to clear it; I wanted them to hear just how much they'd inconvenienced me.
“Victoria says she misses us, Bobby.”
That was my mother's usual practice: paraphrasing to the point that she lost the point altogether.
“Not what I said, Mom, and certainly not what I meant. I can't wait for you to get the heck back out of Oz so I don't keep getting calls at these ungodly hours.”
“You should be up now anyway. Don't you have any criminals to keep out of jail?”
My groan thundered so loudly it rattled my bed frame, like an earthquake. I usually counted the amount of times my mother made me do that in one conversation. The most I'd managed was five times, back when I first dropped the news that I wasn't going to take over the family business but become a lawyer instead.
“You know I'm a corporate attorney; I don't handle criminal law.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said dismissively. To her, all law was the same, and pretty black and white, and almost anyone who needed my help to defend them was a criminal. Her world was a simple one. “We sent you a postcard from Adelaide. Specially made. It's got your father on the front holding a koala.”
“I hope he was gentle with it. You know what he's like with his grip – he holds everything like he's clutching iron!”
I fumbled out of bed, but not before shooting a wistful look at my wall clock, watching the hands creep ever closer to doom hour, the moment when I'd have to get ready for the daily grind. I knew I'd never get back to sleep after one of my mother's phone calls.
I threw open the door of my walk-in closet, rubbed sleep from my eyes and avoided looking at my reflection in the wall-length mirror, knowing how puffy and red my eyes would be from lack of sleep. Suits on the left, everything else on the right. I was pretty OCD about my closet. Lupita had gotten the hang of things almost immediately, and had never batted an eyelid at my little eccentricities. My work suits were always where I could find them.
Not today.
“You've got to be kidding me!” I had to stifle back a curse-word, remembering that my mother was still on the line, on speaker.
“Vic, what is it?”
She couldn't see what I could see – a practically empty left side, or the overflowing laundry basket on the other side of my room.
“All my work clothes are dirty.”
Well, one solitary white pant suit – disco-esque, complete with bell bottoms – hung on the left. It would have been perfect... if I was going to court in the seventies! That was Lupita's oversight; it clearly shouldn't have been on the left.
“She's off sick,” I sulked.
“Did you think your clothes would wash themselves?”
I cut my phone a seething look, hoping the look would miraculously travel through the telephone lines and whack my mother for being her usual unhelpful self.
“No, I...” I began, but realized she was right. What had I expected? Lupita had been off for a whole week and I'd yet to call the agency for a temp. I barely knew how to operate my washing machine; so again, what had I expected?
“So get a new maid. Or learn to take better care of yourself.”
“I'm going to get a new one, I just haven't gotten around to it yet.”
It wasn't that simple, though. A lot went into choosing a good maid. There had to be a connection – a synergy between employer and employee. An immediate trust. I didn't think I'd find that with another maid.
“Good, because I've seen your washing machine. That thing looks like a freakin' time machine, what with all those buttons! You wouldn't be able to work that beast. You're technology illiterate just like your father.”
“Your confidence in me is really inspiring.”
She said something in retort, but the jingle of my doorbell drowned out what I was sure was a bitchy comment (the only kind she knew how to make). Not even 7 AM and someone was at my door. Only Lupita ever turned up early, but even she waited until eight to start her shifts. Besides, this couldn't have been Lupita.
“Gotta go. Someone's at the door.”
“Who is it?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don't know, Mom.”
“Why are you getting visitors at this hour?”
I growled for the second time in the conversation. “That's what I'm going to find out. Love you. Bye.”
She tried to say something else, probably to scold me for what she called my 'biting sarcasm', but I'd already reached over the bed and hung up. I let out a relieved sigh when I could no longer hear her.
The bell went again.
“All right, I'm coming,” I called. I pulled on the closest bathrobe I could find – a worn gray number that was so worn and threadbare, from years of wear and tear, that Goodwill had turned it down when I'd tried to donate it. I ran my hand through my hair a couple of times, getting my fingers tangled in the knots, before charging to the door. If I'd had to take a guess I'd have said it was a neighbor, stopping by to borrow some sugar or milk. It was the kind of neighborhood for it. Someone was always borrowing something, most of the time when they already had whatever they were asking for. I'd learned that the act of borrowing food was a means of socializing. I'd never borrowed anything, and had no immediate plans to.
When I unchained the door and threw it open, neglecting to take a peek through the spyhole, my legs grew weak. I had to grip onto the door to keep myself steady. I wanted to believe that it was because I was light-headed from my sprint to the door, or because I'd woken up too early, or because I hadn't eaten in twelve hours, or because... anything else. I would have sooner believed that some rare disease was the cause of my imbalance than accept the fact that the person standing before me was responsible. Not the person, the boy. That tall, black-haired, black-eyed boy with the golden skin and full lips as delicious and red as the sweetest, juiciest strawberry. Behind him, day broke, and the orange sun began to rise. The sight could have come straight from the tip of an artist's brush; could have hung in the Louvre beside The Mona Lisa.
Eduardo Montez, as beautiful as he was the day we first met at the hospital. As brooding and distrusting as he had been when he'd looked at me with those penetrative, reproachful ebony eyes. A few days' worth of jet black stubble hid his chiseled jaw, and several little red cuts decorated his bronzed face – a band aid sat over his left brow, splitting it in two. His knuckles had a slight purple-blue tinge to them – bruised, just like his arms, altering the palette of those thick golden arms.
My first question would have been, “What the hell happened to you?” But I quickly remembered that we were strangers, and whatever had happened to him wasn't any of my concern. Moreover, he wouldn't have told me even if I'd had the courage to pry. Besides, there were a thousand other more important questions to ask; that's what I went with first.
“Um... hello?”
Okay, so it wasn't so much a question as a what the heck! reaction.
“Hello.” Everything about his delivery of such a simple word, the most common of courtesies, sounded forced, like someone had a gun to his head. Did he despise me so much that he couldn't even offer me a standard greeting without balking?
“Eduardo, right? Lupita's son?” I questioned, just for the sake of it. I knew exactly who he was – the son of my maid. The strikingly handsome, nineteen-year-old son of my maid. I didn't need a reminder, not after the way I was feeling, beneath his dark gaze. I had to tear my eyes away from his, and away from those taut biceps that were on full display, thanks to the off white wife beater he wore like a runway model. However, as my eyes drifted from his arms, they foolishly lingered on the rock-like chest, which the meager material wasn't doing a good job of concealing. The outline of an erect nipple showed through the fabric.
Although I couldn't see the blush that stained my face, I felt it like a sheet of fire. It even managed to reach my neck. An uncomfortable warmth greeted me between my legs, the kind no man had elicited in me since I was in my early twenties. At thirty-five, it shocked me that someone this young could bring back those feelings. My blush wasn't going anywhere.
I pulled my robe tighter around my body, as though shielding myself from an imaginary chill, when in reality the temperature had reached a new high. I could have been imagining it but I was sure I saw the sliver of a smile crease the corner of his mouth, so faint it should have gone unnoticed. Was my sexual frustration a source of amusement to him? I couldn't blame him, really. I must have looked ridiculous. A woman nearly twice his age getting flustered over a bit of skin. Bronzed, perfect skin, might I add, but skin all the same.
“W-what are you doing here?” I continued, realizing that he wasn't going to confirm his identity. Just another way for him to show how stubborn he was.
“I'm filling in for my mom.”
“She was serious about that? You actually agreed to this?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes serious, penetrating mine. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I just, well... I didn't think you'd want to work for me, not after what you said at the hospital.”
“What, that you're a slave-driver who overworks her employees until they end up in hospital, sick from exhaustion? And who then offers to pay their medical bills to make herself feel better?”
My hand itched to slam the door in his face, to rid myself of his hate-filled stare and words.
“A slave-driver? Is that what you call someone who pays triple the minimum wage?”
He didn't respond, only glared from atop his high horse, which was getting lower by the second.
I went on. “You're more than welcome to find another person willing to fork over that much for a job many people would do for below minimum.”
He raised his injured eyebrow. “Many people? You mean illegal immigrants? Latinos? This keeps getting better and better.” He gave a derisive snort, a sarcastic laugh, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Look, pal, why don't you remove the stick from your ass before you step into my house!” I said it before I could stop myself. That wasn't the lawyer in me, that was someone completely different. Someone who used the word “pal” like a boss (though no one used words like that any more). Someone who wasn't going to take bullshit from a disgruntled teen whose purpose was to guilt me out over being a high earner.
“No stick, I'm just telling it like it is.”
Silence punctuated his sentence, and continued on while we stood at the door sizing each other up. And when that was over, when things had grown sufficiently awkward, I looked away. I could still feel his eyes on me
, the effect of which made me feel naked, despite me wearing two sheets of clothing.
I let out a long, exhausted breath. “I promised your mother I'd give you a shot, so if you want the job, you've got it.”
I half expected him to turn his back to me then storm off indignantly, but to my surprise, horror and delight, he stepped past me into the house. I watched him as he panned the spacious entrance hallway of my mansion-sized home, taking in every piece of lavish decoration, from the large crystal chandelier that shadowed above us – that had been a gift from a client, and cost a small fortune – to the marble staircase that led to the second floor. He retained a poker face, neither visibly liking, nor loathing his surroundings. He knew I was watching him; without an audience he would have had a reaction, good or bad.
“It's three days a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Eight to twelve. Fifteen minutes break.”
“What does my mom normally do first?” He didn't seem to find the hours unsatisfactory. I'd been prepared for an argument over them.
I hesitated before answering, a sense of embarrassment taking over. “When she arrives in the morning she cleans the kitchen then makes breakfast.” For the first time in my life I felt ashamed for having a maid; for needing one. Her tasks sounded so frivolous when said aloud, to her son. Tasks anyone could have done for themselves, and most were expected to. For the first time I felt like a privileged, spoiled brat.
“Then what?”
“There's actually a list she keeps on the refrigerator.” I led him through to the open-plan kitchen. The A4 paper was right where she'd left it, stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet of the Union Jack (a souvenir from my vacation to London the year before), his mother's handwriting scrawled all over it. I hadn't had the heart to remove the list; it had been there almost as long as she had – it was a part of the furniture.
“Half of it is in Spanish, though.”
“I can read Spanish,” he stated pompously, somewhat impatiently, as though it was a given.
“Good, because I can't... unless it's in English!” I laughed at my own lame joke, foolishly expecting him to join in, in order to lighten the mood a little. But no dice. It was as though the kid couldn't laugh or smile without it having a negative connotation. Was this how it would be having him around the house? At least Lupita laughed at my stupid jokes, even though I was certain she didn't understand half of them. She and her son were so different it was hard to imagine that they were related, let alone mother and son.