Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  “George, where’s the kitchen?” I ask, glancing around.

  “Well, this isn’t a proper suite. My grandson sometimes stayed here while in University. We made a makeshift kitchen area, and he used this hot plate.” George leads me to a two-burner apparatus lying abandoned on the Oscar carpet.

  Okay, breathe Lane. What the fuck?! “You expect me to cook? On this?” I turn to George in shock, mouth agape.

  “I could probably get a microwave up here.”

  Microwave? Microwave? Is this what my life has become? I’m going to start eating like a frat boy? Really?

  “Anyway,” George continues, “you just put the hot plate on the counter and it’s fine. Worked well for my grandson.”

  My headache that had miraculously disappeared is now back with a vengeance. How am I going to feed my family on that? “And…what about a kitchen sink…and a bloody fridge?”

  “I have a bloody fridge in the basement. It’s a bar fridge mind you, but suitable for one person. And as for a kitchen sink, come here.” He brings me over to a small three-by-five nook. It has ugly laminate flooring, a short countertop, and a tiny sink.

  This is the kitchen? Oh my God.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” George says.

  “I am not a beggar. Never have been, never will be. But I need this apartment, so I’ll take it! I’ll be back tomorrow to move in.”

  I turn to leave, but George shakes his head and puts his hands up. “Now wait a minute, not so fast. I haven’t decided yet on this. I can’t just say yes right now. In fact…I don’t think this will work.”

  What?

  “No, George, what do you mean?”

  He’s turned around and is now slowly making his way down the stairs. Creak, creak, creak. I follow right on his heels. “George, please, I thought we already decided. I need a place by tomorrow.”

  “So you said. But what does that have to do with me? I’m just an old man going about my business. I don’t need a tenant and I don’t need the money.”

  “George, please. I’m desperate. You won’t regret this. Please, there must be some way I can convince you?”

  George stops on the second-floor landing, turns around, and peers at me. “Well,” he hesitates and rubs the back of his neck, “there is something you can do.”

  Oh. Oh no.

  Please don’t ask for a blow-job. If he asks for a blow-job, I’m going to smack him. “Oh?” I ask, my voice barely a tentative whisper.

  “Yeah. There’s something I haven’t had done for me in a long, long time.”

  Oh God.

  I flex my right hand and gear up to drive him one.

  “I’d like you to go down—”

  That’s it! I swing my arm and my hand flies toward his face. He catches it mid swing, with the precision and coordination of an athlete.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he growls.

  “I was about to ask the same thing.”

  “What did you think I was going to say?”

  “Something sexual, you nasty old man.”

  “Sexual?” George chuckles at this. “I’m years passed being interested in anything sexual, believe me. And if I were, well, you’re not my type.”

  Not his type. Well, now I’m offended. “Not your type? I happen to be everyone’s type! And anyway, if you weren’t going to say something dirty, what were you going to say?” Now my curiosity is piqued.

  George shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Like I said, I don’t need a tenant or the money.”

  This man is infuriating. I want to shake him, and yell at him, and tell him it’s not all about him. Hey, that might be the answer. “Well, just tell me what you were going to say.”

  “You’re one determined woman, you know that?” We’ve reached the foyer and George turns to me. “I hate grocery shopping.”

  Wait. What? “That’s what you were going to say? You hate grocery— Oh! That’s what you wanted me to do for you.”

  “That’s right. My wife used to grocery shop, and I just hate it. I get overwhelmed, and it’s hard to shop for one person. I usually come home with half the things I should have picked up.” He gives me a sad smile.

  “Well, how often would you want me to shop? Hypothetically, I mean.” Reel him back in…

  “Oh, I don’t know. Once a week?”

  “I could do that.” Not a big deal, really. I could do both grocery shops at once. “Also,” I continue, “you said you’re a retired admiral and that you don’t need the money. What about donating the rent money to a worthwhile cause that benefits the Navy, or the ocean, or a charity along those lines?”

  I’ve slipped my shoes on and we’re now back outside and are making our way up the path. When we reach the sidewalk, I know my shot at this will be over. George is silent. Oh, please.

  “All right.”

  Really? I turn to him in surprise.

  “Thirteen hundred a month, utilities included.”

  I cannot believe my luck. I want to hug this man, and I’m definitely not the huggy type. “Deal,” I say. It’s hard to contain my relief and excitement. I want to jump around like Margo does, but I settle on grinning like an idiot. I’ve got to get home and finish packing; there are a million things to do. “Thank you, George. Thank you!”

  I wave goodbye and practically dance my way back to the bus stop. Who would have ever thought I would be thrilled to live in a dusty, shag-carpeted attic? But—oh, Kitsilano, it’s good to be back!

  6

  Today is moving day. I awoke with a heavy heart and sick stomach that hasn’t let up. I can’t eat or drink, or care about eating or drinking, or anything at all really. The victory I felt yesterday for scoring a place to live has dissipated and now feels like a childish feat. Who the hell cares?

  Boxes are everywhere, and what’s even more rampant is the baby gear. With the playpen, high chair, booster seat, car seat, and kids’ toys, books, and clothes, there will be limited room for my bed and my belongings.

  Once he’s finished delivering flowers for weddings and other events, Billy will be over to move our things in his florist cube van.

  Upstairs, I sit on my bed, all dressed and ready to go. Go where? How can I even manage with kids on my own? It’s incredibly daunting and overwhelming. The scariest thing is I can’t picture my future. It’s one big, gray question mark. The only thing I can picture is us hanging out in that shagged attic, which is hardly thrilling. I feel like I can’t catch my breath. My room is silent. The silence is deafening, pounding in my ears and reverberating off the walls. I lift my face and, for the last time, take in the surroundings of my heavenly East Wing. It feels surreal that I’ll be leaving this all behind.

  My eyes settle on a framed picture of my mom and me when I was a child. I cross the room and peer at the photo for a closer look. Mom and I are swimming side by side at Spanish Banks, a beach near Kits. Our faces mirror each other’s happiness and simple joy of a beautiful afternoon swim together. I can’t help but smile at the picture. How I long for those days that still seem so real I can practically feel the cool water and floating sensation. Even more vivid is the feeling I knew so well of being in the safety and love of mom’s presence. What I would give to feel that sense of security and well-being right now.

  “Lane.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re ready to load the van, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Lane, you okay?”

  I turn to Billy in a daze. Nothing seems real. Billy gives me a sympathetic smile. Or is it pity? I’m not sure.

  “Aren’t you going to take your canopy?” he asks, heading over to the bed and fingering the delicate peach fabric.

  “I can’t take the four-poster bed, so what’s the point” I mumble in reply.

  “Oh, come on, Lane. It’s all good. You have a nice place to go, and everything is going to work out. Plus, as you said, Micky will be back and…”

  I tune out as Billy rambles on in an appare
nt effort to soothe my spirits. He’s slipped off his shoes and has jumped onto my bed to untie the canopy fabric from the wooden bed frame. I watch in silence, feeling a glimmer of gratitude for this small comfort in the new place. It’s going to look ridiculous against that carpet.

  Billy finishes untying the last ribbon and leaps to the floor, looking pleased with himself. “Ready?” he asks, coming to stand at my side. I inhale a meager breath, and surveying my beautiful retreat one last time, I nod and turn quickly, clutching the picture of Mom and me.

  Downstairs, Denise is piling the final boxes at the door, and Rory is seated in her car seat, gnawing on a teething ring with exuberance.

  “Where’s Margo?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure, Ms. Carson. Try her bedroom.”

  I turn around to head back upstairs. The door to Margo’s room is ajar, and I push it open. Margo is sitting on her bed and appears to be lost in thought. We’re two of a kind. “Margo, we need to leave,” I say.

  Margo scrambles to her feet. Her eyes seem larger than usual, and today she carries a solemn demeanor well beyond her years. I know how she feels, but I can’t seem to find the right words to say so. We stand before each other in silence. Finally I extend my hand to her. She hesitates only briefly before coming to my side and placing her small hand in mine. We descend the grand staircase together for the last time.

  A Chinese man I’ve never seen is helping carry boxes to the van. Denise introduces us. “Ms. Carson, this is my husband Alec.”

  Husband? I didn’t know Denise was married. Good, Micky thought to hire additional help for moving day. I nod to the man and then move on to see what Billy’s up to.

  Alec and Billy make trips back and forth to the van. I pretend to be engrossed in my phone so I don’t need to help, but I see Margo is carrying some small boxes.

  “Should we bring my mattress down now before the truck is too full?” I ask.

  “Good idea,” Billy says, and he and Alec abandon the boxes and follow me upstairs. My mattress is king sized and pillow topped. Between us—Alec, a small Chinese man, Billy, a waif of a man himself, and me, a lightweight—we are barely able to get the mattress off the frame.

  Once we’ve heaved it onto the floor, we hold it upright and pause for a break, panting like ragged dogs.

  “Lane, did you say your suite is on the third floor?” Billy asks, his voice thick with dread.

  “Uh, yep.”

  Billy lets go of his corner of the mattress, and it topples to the floor with an alarming thud. “Any other smaller mattresses?” he asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. Alec looks relieved this beast is staying behind.

  They follow me to our third spare bedroom, the lowliest of all our spares. There’s a simple double mattress and box frame, without pillow top layers and added weight. We easily slide them down the stairs and into the waiting van. In no time, the van is loaded and bursting at the seams, and a cab is en route to pick us up. There’s no way in hell I’m busing to our new place—I’ll ride in semi comfort by splurging on a taxi.

  While Billy secures the van doors, I wander over to Denise. “Good thing Micky kept you on for the last two days and hired Alec to help out. I can’t imagine having to do this all on my own.” I turn to her for acknowledgment, but she remains silent. “Denise?”

  “Mr. Capello gave me notice of termination that was effective immediately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…I wanted to stay and help.” She gives me a shy smile. “It would have been too much to do on your own with the kids.”

  My mouth hangs agape. “Micky never asked you to stay on?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And your husband? Is he here because he was hired?”

  “No. Again, you needed help.”

  I gaze at Denise in amazement. For the first time, I see her. I mean really see her for who she is—a caring human being—and not simply the “hired help.” I mean, I didn’t even know she had a husband. I never bothered to ask anything of her personal life; never even asked how she was doing—yet she is here for me anyway.

  “Denise, I don’t know what to say.” I stand before her at a loss for words.

  “Don’t mention it. You would have done the same.”

  I would have? Somehow I doubt that. “Denise, if I can make this up to you, one day I will…”

  “It’s all right, Ms. Carson.”

  “Lane, please.”

  Denise nods, her eyes full of warmth. “Be well, Lane.” She says her goodbyes to Margo and Rory and tears up as she hugs them. It dawns on me that Denise has been with us since the girls’ births and has watched them grow up.

  A yellow cab pulls into the drive. Billy helps me fasten Rory into her car seat and Margo into her booster. I take a seat beside the driver and press my face as close to the smudged window as I can without actually touching it. Goodbye home!

  Memories flood back—from the first time Micky and I came to view this magnificent land, to the excitement we felt with each building phase completed, to the tranquility I was able to experience in my East Wing.

  I notice with puzzlement the fountains are not operating but standing still and lifeless, already abandoned and forgotten. We circle the drive slowly so I can get a last look. I drink in the details and confirm it to memory for keeps. Maybe we can get it back someday, when Micky is able to sort out this mess.

  What if he can’t? I push the thought away.

  We pass the elaborate, perfectly manicured and professionally detailed gardens. And then, we exit the massive gates and turn onto the road, and the house is gone.

  Across the bay, George Harris is having his afternoon tea in the company of his Siamese cat, Piper. He takes in mouthfuls of steaming tea, almost scalding his tongue. His mind is on other things. How could he have had such a terrible lapse in judgment and have agreed to the harebrained idea of having a tenant? Of course he doesn’t want a tenant after living alone for over thirty years. And a single woman? That single woman? No way! Women like that are trouble, with their sharp heels and sharper tongue. The last thing he needs in his predictable old age is a young hen squawking about the place and making demands. And noise! Never mind she would be on the third floor. Young people these days like loud music—rap music.

  He lets out a low groan, and Piper leaps into this lap, purring as if in an effort to appease his mood. George pats the cat’s soft head; and with that, she jumps to the coffee table, almost knocking over his hot tea.

  “Damn cat! I’ve told you not to go on the table,” he yells and swats at Piper, who swats back, leaving a light scratch on George’s forearm.

  “Damn cat!” He shakes his fist at her. She hops to the floor, bellowing a loud, screeching meow. “No, you can’t share my biscuit!” George pops the last of his biscuit into his mouth. “I’ve told you before. No tabletops or counters for you.” Piper gives him a long look and saunters off to lie in the patch of sun, and George goes back to his tea and musings.

  No, it wasn’t a good idea at all, and it won’t work. That’s it. He’ll just have to tell her when she comes that there’s been a change of plans. She won’t be moving in.

  “She can’t move in. I’ve been on my own for over thirty years. What was I thinking?” Piper’s ear twitches ever so slightly and she flicks her tail, but otherwise she seems to play oblivious to the old man. His question hangs in the air unanswered, like all his other ramblings.

  “Well, it’ll just have to be.”

  Feeling satisfied with having rectified the situation, he heaves his tired body from the tattered armchair and trudges over to kitchen to wash his cup.

  “Okay, we’re officially in Kitsilano,” I say, turning in my seat to face Margo. She cranes her neck to get a better view as we make our way along Cornwall. In a few minutes, we’ll be driving right by Kits Beach, and judging by the warm September day, it should be absolutely packed. Margo’s face is peeled to the window, but she is unusually quiet. As for me, I try to
not think about the monumental change this will be, and instead, break it all into manageable bits. Like, right now, we are driving down Cornwall. That’s all.

  “Rory is sleeping,” Margo whispers.

  Oh good! At least that makes things easy for unpacking.

  “Look, Kits Beach!” I say, as we make our way past. The beach is dotted with hundreds of people tanning, swimming, and playing volleyball, and I notice a trio practicing circus moves on a tightrope tied between two trees. There are always eccentric people practicing their craft on the beach.

  “Turn right on Point Grey Road,” I tell the driver as we come to the end of Kits Beach. The driver hangs a right, and I lean forward as we curve around a bend and head for the end of the block to George’s home.

  I pay the driver and unload Rory, who’s sleeping. Margo clambers out of the car, dragging her booster behind her. The moving van isn’t here yet, but that’s fine. I carry Rory’s car seat, which must weigh eighty pounds, I swear.

  “Well, here we are,” I announce to Margo, as we stand staring at the house. I’m careful not to say the word “home,” or even anything along the lines to “this is where we’ll be living.”

  We’ve just made our way up the cobblestone walkway, when the heavy front door bursts open and George bustles his way toward us. I can’t help but notice from his expression that he’s agitated, to say the least. Here we go!

  “Who the hell are these kids?” he demands, coming over to me and getting all up in my face.

  “Well, hello to you too,” I retort, not bothering to answer his question. I heave the massive car seat to the ground. The seat shakes and Rory stirs. Oh, please don’t wake up. Rory’s eyes pop open and focus on me; and with that, the wailing starts.

  “Who the hell are these kids?” George yells over her cries.

  “They’re my kids,” I yell back, shrugging as though it’s no big deal.

  But George only gets more irate. “Kids? You have kids and you didn’t even bother telling me. Wait, do they not live with you?”

  “Of course they live with me,” I snap. Stupid old man! What’s it to him?