Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  Riley does his now-familiar fist pump, yelling “Yeah!” and I tear my eyes away to gauge the others’ reactions. Juliet looks politely amused. George looks like he swallowed a lemon—but then that isn’t the first time—and Billy remains expressionless, which to me is most amusing of all. I dissolve into giggles, and Billy turns to me, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

  “You got a problem, Elaine?” the Muppet taunts, turning to me. I roll my eyes and decide to ignore him, and instead, concentrate on undoing my own carrier for Rory. Billy comes over to help me, relieved for the distraction, I’m sure, and conversation resumes, with Dad asking George about his life in the navy.

  “So, who’s your dad’s new friend?” Billy asks, eyes twinkling with delight.

  “Why don’t you ask your Mom?” I mutter, pain etched in my voice.

  “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but speaking of parents, you won’t believe what happened.”

  I pull Rory’s bottle out of the diaper bag, and she grabs for it eagerly. I swing her around so she’s lying on my lap and I can watch her little cherub face as she suckles the bottle. Her blue eyes lock into mine, and I stare, mesmerized.

  “Lane?”

  Hmm? “Oh, what happened?”

  “The investigator! He tracked down my birth father!”

  I snap my head up. “Really?”

  “Yes, he’s still in Haiti, of course, on Gonave Island, and he’s a single father with six grown kids and eleven grandchildren.”

  “Wow, you won’t be short family any time soon,” I say, feeling stung.

  “Can you believe this? I have his contact info, so now all I have to do is get in touch.”

  “That’s fantastic, Billy!”

  “Come on everyone, let’s eat,” Dad says, so we take our places at the table.

  I’m biting into a piece of cantaloupe, when Billy jabs me in the ribs, causing me to almost inhale the melon.

  “What the fu—”

  “John’s coming,” Billy cries, his voice thick with anticipation. I turn to where Billy has directed his gaze and catch my breath. I’d recognize those gorgeous golden waves anywhere, and that prance and theatrical flair is unmistakable.

  It’s Micky’s client, Mr. Fenwig. But why…? I check to see if someone else is behind him—Billy can’t possibly be referring to Fenwig. But their eyes are locked and both are grinning. Holy fuck.

  Beside me, Billy stands to greet him and announces with pride, “Everyone, this is my boyfriend, John Childs.”

  I’m motionless, eyes transfixed on John’s face.

  Fenwig charms us with a gorgeous smile and a little wave. He greets each of us individually, exchanging hellos, until finally it’s my turn, and the recognition flickers in his eyes. “Oh!” is all he can say.

  I pass Rory to Dad and stand to eye him head on. “Why don’t you tell Billy your real name,” I say, a tame but growing rage building in my core. Billy watches us, eyes darting back and forth. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell Billy,” I continue, raising my voice, “that you’re married?” The audacity of this slime-ball playing sweet and generous Billy is more than I can take.

  Fenwig’s eyes dart back to Billy, then to the group, and back to me.

  “Can I have a word in private?” he asks me in a calm and soothing voice.

  Unbelievable. “Uh, don’t you think it’s Billy who you should be having a word with?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. Fenwig sighs and shakes his head. My eyes narrow at him and after a beat I throw my hands in the air. “Fine,” I say, as I stalk away in a huff, Fenwig and Billy at my heels.

  “What’s going on?” I hear Billy asking Fenwig in a loud whisper. I can’t mistake the panic in his voice.

  “Please—slow down,” Fenwig calls, and I spin around on my heel to face him.

  “All right. Go ahead. You have thirty seconds.”

  “My real name is John Childs.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It is. I’m an acting instructor…and an actor. I was hired to play the character of Mr. Fenwig.”

  WHAT? My head is spinning, I just don’t understand. I’m standing before John/Fenwig, slack mouthed, trying to place the pieces of what he’s telling me—but they just don’t add up.

  “Fenwig was my husband’s client, not a character.” Unless there is a real Fenwig that couldn’t make the meeting, so an actor was hired. This is nuts. “Who hired you?” I ask. John/Fenwig gives Billy a pained look and turns back to me.

  “Your husband, Mr. Carson, hired me.”

  I suck in my breath trying to digest this. “What were your instructions? W-what was the plan?”

  “Well, if I remember correctly, you left in a rather dramatic fashion, and I was immediately dismissed as my talent was no longer needed.”

  “Were you paid?”

  “Yes, handsomely.”

  I shake my head and raise my eyes to Billy, who looks utterly shattered for me.

  “So if I hadn’t left, what was your role as Fenwig?”

  “I was to accompany my ‘wife,’ Mrs. Fenwig—”

  “Was she an actor too?”

  “No.”

  I sigh in disbelief and motion for him to continue.

  “I was to play the role of this big shot billionaire and was told half an hour into the voyage I was supposed to excuse myself with a bad case of sea-sickness and retreat to a private cabin.”

  “And what were you to do in the cabin?” I ask with a frown.

  “They didn’t care. They said I would have a room attendant for any culinary requests or special needs, but I was to pretty much stay in the cabin unless I was summoned—in their words.”

  “I don’t believe this,” I say, knowing full well I do. But why did Micky hire an actor, and what was his ultimate plan had I not left the ship? I prompt John for more info, but he doesn’t know anything more. This just doesn’t make sense. We’ve talked in circles and there’s nothing more to discuss, so we turn around and head back to the party.

  “You okay?” Billy asks, his eyes pained. I feel dizzyingly confused and suddenly freezing. I shudder and John places a warm hand on my back. For once I don’t flinch.

  “I brought a thermos of steaming rooibos tea,” he offers, and I nod, feeling momentarily comforted. As for the Fenwig plan that never went down, I’ll have to brood over it later. But for better or worse, this is Margo’s birthday, and Micky’s not going to ruin it, dammit.

  I raise my chin and give a cheerful wave as we approach the picnic table. Billy leans in and whispers, “Atta girl!”

  13

  “Happy birthday, dear Margo,” we all sing. Margo is seated at the head of the picnic table, beaming.

  Though this was such a simple party, it’s all she really needs. I guess we’re all she really needs. I smile privately, thinking about this special, unique little girl who, up until recently, I didn’t know all that well. I feel an unexpected warm glow resonating through my body, and my smile widens into a full-fledged grin. Margo leans over to blow out her candles.

  “Wait! Don’t forget to make a wish,” I call out. She pauses and her eyes meet mine for a brief moment before she leans in and blows out all five candles in one shot. We all clap, and I can’t help but wonder if her wish has to do with Micky coming home.

  The thought of Micky makes me queasy; I think about skipping the cake. Then again, for good luck, I should probably have some. Especially since Juliet is the most incredible baker. Dad hands me a plate of cake, and I dive my fork into the decadent Belgian chocolate and pop it into my mouth. It’s absolutely divine—the richness is out of this world, but it’s balanced by not being overly sweet. We’re absorbed in our dessert, and conversation has all but died.

  “Can we eat this on the sand?” Margo pipes up.

  “No, don’t be silly, we’re already at the table,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “I don’t mind,” George offers. I shoot him an inquisitive look. Someone took their happy pills today.
Everyone echoes George’s sentiments, so I shrug and stand with Rory in one arm and my cake in the other.

  We clamber over the logs and onto the beach, and collapse into the soft, cool sand. Rory’s eyes widen as she makes for a grab at the sand, which falls through her chubby fingers like an hourglass. She babbles and claps, while Margo regards her with a smile. I lean in to Billy and whisper, “Micky shouldn’t be missing this. He shouldn’t miss his daughter’s first encounter with sand, and he definitely shouldn’t miss his daughter’s birthday. My patience with him is wearing thin.” Billy stares ahead but nods, apparently lost in thought. I sigh and turn my attention back to my chocolate cake, which I should be enjoying right now. I should be enjoying my daughter’s birthday and the company of family and friends, but to be honest I feel weary and tired.

  I guess Dad overheard what I said because he leans in with an eager face. “Laney, why don’t I take the girls back to my place for the afternoon? You can pick them up after supper; but in the meantime, take a bit of a break…I think you could use one.”

  My first reaction is to say “no, don’t worry about it,” but Juliet and Billy are nodding their heads in tandem. Margo’s eyes are bright and pleading at the prospect of another visit to Pops’ house. Not to mention quality time with Uncle Riley.

  But Riley shrieks in his crazy Brooklyn accent. “Not happening!”

  “Now son,” Dad says in a mock stern voice, “that’s no way to treat your own flesh and blood. We’ll have a great time.”

  I shake my head and stretch out onto my stomach, absently stirring the sand with a twig as Dad and Riley duke it out. When’s this party over?

  Juliet leans in, giving me another affectionate squeeze. “You so deserve some quiet time for yourself. Why don’t you take your dad up on his offer?”

  I glance at her caring face and warm blue eyes and then I smile, mirroring her.

  “Okay.”

  And so it’s settled.

  “I can’t believe I’ll have time to myself. Do you want to hang out? You can tell me all about your trip, and I can actually give you my undivided attention.”

  “No,” Juliet says, pulling her auburn hair into a ponytail. “Another time, for sure. But you need to be on your own. Crap, I think I felt a raindrop.”

  I wait a couple of seconds, and sure enough, I feel not one but two drops, and then too many to count. Rain starts pelting down around us in a deluge that appears almost artificial, like on a movie set. We all scream as we snatch up our belongings and run for cover.

  We huddle under the large overhang from the Boathouse Restaurant until the pouring rain subsides. Margo uses the opportunity to treat the showers like one big lawn sprinkler, and dashes out from the shelter to twirl and laugh and literally sing in the rain. We look on, shaking our heads and smiling.

  To her surprise, and our relief, the rain dissipates. Dad walks us back to George’s house, chattering the whole way with George, who seems genuinely receptive. They’re talking fishing—I’m just thankful Riley, who’s in his baby carrier, is keeping his trap shut.

  At home I pack the girls’ belongings, lead them outside, and fasten Rory in her stroller. I feel the unfamiliar pull at my heartstrings as I say goodbye to the girls and watch Dad, Margo, and Rory disappear down the street.

  Upstairs, the attic is silent. Aside from the occasional car driving by or the faint sound of birds rejoicing in their post-rain glory, it’s going to be one hell of a quiet afternoon. I need to make the most of it, though; because before I know it, I’m going to be running off my feet again. Especially when I start working…if I ever get a job, that is.

  I wander into the bathroom and draw steaming water into the claw-foot tub. Denise had packed a small bottle of gardenia essential oil, and I pour in a generous portion and lower myself into the decadent oasis. The waters smell heavenly, and I’m instantly brought back to my East Wing. How I took it all for granted—the leisure time, the affluent lifestyle, even Micky. To this day, after years of marriage and supposedly knowing him so well, some things remain a mystery, like Micky hiring an actor to ambush our anniversary of all things.

  What would my life be like if we hadn’t met at all? My stomach churns at the thought of that fateful night Micky swept in like a shining knight to save me. It was so long ago, over a decade, and yet in a way it feels like it was just yesterday.

  We lived in a shabby apartment on the east side, Dad and I. It hadn’t even been a year since we buried Mom, and Dad was in a bad place, to say the least. He was deeply depressed and on long-term leave from work; and the money from his disability barely covered the necessities. Dad was unpredictable with any money he did have. It wasn’t unusual for him to cash his disability check and come home with most of it missing. His glazed eyes and delayed reactions were part of the depression—he seemed a million miles away, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand his logic.

  Sometimes, on impulse, he would give away his money; other times, he would carry the wad of money, set it down somewhere, and forget it. Or he would blow it on the most absurd purchases. Like the time he brought home an inflatable lounge pad for a pool, though we didn’t have a pool. Or when he went AWOL in the hair care aisle of a drugstore, bringing home everything from curling irons (yes, more than one), tubs of hair gel, hair accessories, and synthetic extensions.

  Why? That was always my question. Why couldn’t the money go to the things we desperately needed, like food, clothing, and rent for our decrepit apartment.

  So I got a job. I wanted to model, but my size 7 was considered far too curvy. At 18, I had the looks and the youth, and the naivety to go along with them. No, I didn’t become a prostitute or a stripper. But I felt degraded nonetheless.

  I was a brand promotions model, and I didn’t mind the car shows and corporate launches, and such. Though one night, my usual agent couldn’t accompany the models to the launch of a new casino in Surrey, so she sent this slime-ball, Rick.

  I was naked and painted to reflect the casino’s raunchy theme. Instead of doing something artistic, the artist played up the “sex sells” notion and accentuated my already full chest with metallic swirls of paint on my boobs and gold sequins on my nipples. Usually the art was tasteful and gave the appearance that I was clothed, but this was worse than being naked.

  “I need your heels on, babe, it’s ShowTime!” Rick called, waltzing into the dressing room, reeking of cigarettes and booze. He took his sweet time looking me over, while licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. My heart quickened as I twisted back, wide eyed, to the body paint artist.

  “You look amazing!” she breathed, admiring her work.

  In the mirror, I saw my hair was teased and volumized and my eyes were heavy with make-up and false lashes. I had metallic bull’s-eyes for boobs too. To my horror, when I turned around, I also saw that my ass had been painted to mirror two ripe cherries.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” Rick snarled. I scrambled for those ruby-red patent leather shoes with the six-inch platform stripper heels and struggled with the straps, while he circled me like a ravenous lion set to devour its prey. I stood wobbling, and he grabbed my arm, yanking me all the way to the main games floor.

  “All right, you’re on blackjack. Literally,” Rick said, hacking a wicked, raspy smokers’ cough. He led me to the table, which was draped with some felt material. “Help me with this, will you?” We spread the protective felt onto the blackjack table. The felt was identical to the game board.

  Rick turned to me with a demonic gleam in his eye. “Climb aboard.”

  Wait. What? I glanced in confusion from the table to Rick and back to the table.

  After a beat, he rolled his eyes and hoisted me up, as I let out a shriek of disbelief. “Doors open in a few minutes. Your job is to be provocative on this table. The casino isn’t holding back. This is an adult entertainment facility and, well, the adults want to be entertained.” He gave a meaningful look and sauntered off in the direction of the dressing room
s, no doubt to prep the other models.

  Meanwhile, I perched awkwardly on the table, with my legs to the side and my hand covering myself. I was terrified of what would happen next. How far did they expect me to go with the “entertainment”? I considered bolting, but dressed like I was (or wasn’t), not to mention being all the way out in Surrey, I stayed as if Velcroed to the felt. Plus, we needed the money; and for this, I would get two hundred dollars plus tips. Tips for what? a small voice said in the back of my mind. But the question was momentarily forgotten when loud music starting pumping and a throng of people, mostly men, poured onto the casino floor.

  My heart raced, pounding in my chest, and my breath was shallow. I tried to control my breathing and sit perky on the table like I was enjoying this. The first cluster of men rounded the corner and goggled at me, naked and posing. There were five guys in their twenties and thirties with drinks in hand, obviously ready for a good time. I was slightly amused at their expressions, watching them exchange looks with their dropped jaws, unable to hide their surprise and excitement. I felt less awkward and smiled under the thick false lashes. I even managed to toss my hair and give a little wave. The guys swarmed around me like bees.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Huh? My smile faltered as I reluctantly turned my attention to Rick, who had appeared out of nowhere.

  “What are you talking about?” I hissed through my frozen smile.

  “Bottoms up! I told you, they want nasty, and perched here like a little fucking priss with your legs glued together isn’t going to leave a memorable casino launch with the guests. You hear me?”

  “Well, what do you expect me to do?” I asked, immediately dreading the answer and fearing whatever sick vision he wanted played out.