Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  Rick leaned in, his disgusting face so close, his sick breath rank and hot. “I want you to gyrate! Dance, move, get on all fours like a dog, show that cherry ass and shake it like a white flag in their goddamn faces.” He straightened and took a step back, but remained firmly planted, his shark-like eyes boring into mine.

  I shuddered and tried to move my hips to the music. I felt light-headed, and the room took on a contorted sort of view. Things started spinning. The men who’d seemed so fascinated with me moments before appeared hungry and cruel, their eyes begging for more. I could feel my face was hot and probably red. My throat was tight. The room spun. I swayed. Rick was back in my face, this time yelling. One guy leaned in and flicked my nipple. I jerked away, shocked. His friends laughed. Then another came forward to grope my other boob, his ugly fat thumb circling my nipple. All the while, Rick was spitting in my face to give more. A choke welled up in my throat and tears pooled in my eyes. I covered my face with my hands, until I realized there was a commotion.

  I took a peek through my fingers and saw some guy pushing the men that grabbed me. He was beautiful, in control and protective, and I knew then I’d be okay. The perverts cowered and slunk away, leaving Rick and the beautiful mystery man face to face.

  “Back off, these are guests. They’re welcome to visit with the lady,” Rick barked, waving around his nicotine-stained finger.

  The beautiful man turned his attention to me, and his back on Rick, to my relief. “Miss?” he said, extending a powerful hand, which I accepted with gratitude. He helped me off the blackjack table and draped my shoulders with his suit jacket. I shivered and took a step closer to him, while Rick went on a tangent, yelling his ugly little man-face off. “Come on,” said my rescuer, as he lead me away.

  “Now just wait. She’s employed by Dynasty Promotions. This is her job,” Rick complained, panic rising in his voice.

  The beautiful man stopped and turned to me. “How old are you?” he asked, loud enough for Rick to hear.

  For once I felt I could look Rick in the eye without terror. “Seventeen,” I answered, loud and clear.

  “Seventeen?” Rick squeaked.

  “Apparently, you were just caught sexually exploiting a minor, a child. If I were you, dirt-bag, I’d start running.”

  Rick gazed in apparent horror from the guy to me and back again. Then he turned on his heel and actually started running.

  The small crowd that had gathered seemed to enjoy the drama and whooped. I let the mystery man accompany me to the change-room so I could retrieve my purse and put some clothes on.

  After I’d changed, he walked me outside into the rainy night. “I should properly introduce myself. Michael Capello,” he said, extending a formal hand. I laughed and shook it. Micky’s vivid, hazel eyes twinkled as he gazed into mine.

  “Lane Carson. I…I can’t thank you enough.”

  Micky waved a hand like it was no big deal. “Where do you live, Lane?”

  “East Van.”

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  I nodded with relief. The reality of what could have happened started to set in as we stood together and waited for the valet to bring his car. I started shaking from nerves, and Micky put a consoling arm around my shoulder.

  “So what are you doing out here? How did you get mixed up in all this?”

  I stared at my feet, not knowing where to start. “It wasn’t like this before,” is all I could say.

  “Well, I should hope not,” he said with a good natured laugh.

  A gorgeous, black Maserati rolled up and the valet hopped out and gave Micky a discreet bow. Micky slipped a bill in his hand, and the valet attendant dashed to open the passenger door for me. I lowered myself into the impressive machine, noting the delicious smell of expensive leather.

  Micky and I took off with a slight screech that sent shivers of excitement down my spine. Then we drove a few minutes in companionable silence.

  Finally, to break the ice, I gave him a sideways glance and said, “You’re not going to try any moves on me tonight? You know, rescue me from one sexually charged environment, only to replace it with another?” I laughed, trying to make light of it.

  Micky’s eyes remained glued to the road, his expression stoic. “You’re just a child.”

  Ouch. The rejection burned. I lifted my chin. Little does he know. “I’m eighteen,” I said.

  “You said you were seventeen.”

  “I said that to scare Rick.”

  Micky gave me a look of disbelief, but started laughing after realizing I was telling the truth. “You think quickly on your feet, Lane. I like that. But seriously, how did you get started in this, uh, line of work?”

  I sighed and sat in silence for a minute as we sped along the Pattullo Bridge, a light rain misting the windows.

  “My Mom died. My dad is depressed and unable to work. Money is tight to say the least. I wanted to model…but got a job doing corporate promotions instead. It’s always been sexy, but never have I been in anything remotely dangerous or uncomfortable like tonight.”

  Micky nodded, his eyes on the road. “So, who’s taking care of you?”

  Tears stung my eyes as I thought of my seemingly perfect life just a short time ago, with two caring parents and anything I could want or need.

  “Apparently, nobody,” I answered in a choked voice. Micky’s eyes met mine, and we drove in contemplative silence until I gave him my address.

  When we pulled up to my shabby building, Micky insisted on opening my door and escorting me inside and up to the third floor. He declined my offer to come in, as I knew he would, and left graciously. I thought I’d never see him again and was saddened at the thought. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect the small but delicate bouquet of orchids the next day, or the invitation to a picnic on the beach.

  We were inseparable from then on. At our wedding ceremony, he wrote his own vows, saying how he would stand by me and protect me all his days. How I would never have to worry or be alone again.

  Well, Micky—I sit, bitter faced and shriveled in bathwater now gone cold—you’re a son of a bitch liar.

  14

  “He’s a dick! I don’t think he even wanted a family at all, he only liked the idea of us,” I yell out to my cell phone that’s on speaker mode, as I struggle to install curtain rods into the ceiling for my makeshift canopy. This is the problem with the lack of a proper four-poster bed, big design ambitions, and nine foot ceilings.

  “Well, maybe he’s not a dick.” Juliet’s voice rings out in the attic. “You don’t know for sure. You don’t know what he was planning. I mean, it was your anniversary, after all. Who knows?”

  “Who knows is right…maybe he was planning on murdering me! Do you think?” This thought has never occurred to me until now. Oh my God!

  “Lane! You’re getting paranoid on me. He hired an actor, not a hit man.”

  “Well, maybe he is a hit man. A hit man conveniently posing as an actor. Maybe Billy’s in danger?”

  “Lane, you’re wild. Your imagination is off the charts. So, switching gears—how’s the job search?”

  “Oh don’t remind— AAAAH,” I scream as I lose my balance and land with a horrible thud on the floor, the screwdriver thankfully pointed away from me.

  “Lane? You all right?”

  I regain my balance and try again, climbing back onto the bed and reaching as high as I possibly can. “Aside from almost impaling myself, I’m fine. Anyway, the job thing blows. Money’s dwindling, and I keep applying for jobs to no avail.” I tighten the last screw and rest my arms at my side. One rod up, two to go. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “You always do.”

  We both laugh. This is true.

  “Anyway, how are your classes going?” I ask.

  “Well, actually…” Juliet pauses, and I motion to the phone to go on and then realize she can’t see me.

  “Well what?”

  “I’ve actually decided not to go back to law s
chool.”

  “Oh. Like take another semester off? Did you not get your fill traveling?”

  “Well, that’s just it. I realized I don’t really want to practice law.”

  “Seriously? That’s it? But you’re supposed to write your bar exam this year. You’re so close.”

  Juliet sighs, and my frown deepens. Juliet has always been the rational one, a planner, and more importantly, a doer. “What does Tom say?”

  “Well, let’s just say that didn’t end well.”

  “What?” They broke up? I can’t believe it. Juliet and Tom were together for…well, for years. I suddenly feel sheepish for not having asked how things were going before. How is it my drama overshadowed everyone else’s? “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. What a crappy friend. Crap, crap, crap.

  “Don’t be. We just changed into different people, or maybe I did. We outran our course.”

  “Well. Okay, so what are you going to do? Career wise?”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “Promise,” I say, as I stand up and take another stab at installing the rods. If only I were a few inches taller…

  “I want to be a geriatric caregiver.”

  What? I almost lose my balance, but lucky for me, this time I catch myself. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  Juliet giggles in her good-natured way and goes on to tell me all about her newfound realization that she feels most at ease caring for people, for seniors in particular, because of their vulnerability, appreciation for the present, and the great stories they share. I half listen as I concentrate on measuring and screwing these bloody brackets.

  “Hey!” I say, remembering something. “I know a business for you. Geriatric personal training.” I recount my story of running with Jennifer Fairweather, and then admit I would best be suited for old and slow clients.

  “You mean Senior Fitness Specialists. Yeah, it’s a certification.”

  Of course it is.

  I’m tired of talking about old people, and I really need to concentrate here; so I ring off and go back to my job at hand.

  When all rods are firmly in place, I locate the box with my canopy and carefully raise the peach silks from their cardboard entrapment. I carry the fine fabrics like a delicate baby and send a telepathic thank you to Billy. I gingerly climb onto the bed and, with utmost care, tie the satin ribbons in place.

  When I’ve finished tying the thirtieth ribbon, I stand back and sink into my bed. The mattress isn’t luxurious but I breathe a sigh of pure bliss as I watch the billowing silks cocooning me. This is my haven. One little part of the world where I can come to, to rejuvenate, escape, and just be.

  I lie back with my hands under my head and let a whole hour (or maybe more) slip by, before pulling myself together and getting ready for the bus ride to Dad’s. Goodbye solitude, it was nice while it lasted.

  Lucky for me, I’m headed east, so the bus is relatively quiet for rush hour. Quiet, meaning I actually get a seat. It’s a seat near the front, where I’m sandwiched between some punk dude and a big man, and we’re facing a row of passengers. They all seem to be staring at me, so I pull a face and allow myself to indulge in daydreaming about my Range Rover. Just this once, I try not to dwell, but it was so lovely. As I envision myself in comfy leather seats, sunroof slightly tilted, letting in the West Coast salty air, blasting Rihanna’s “Diamonds,” and—

  My phone’s ringing.

  I yank it out and grin when I see Billy’s name on the display.

  “Let me guess? You and John broke up, so my free acting class is canceled?” I tease. I catch a man eyeing me with interest, obviously listening in to my conversation. I inch away, wishing for the hundredth time not to be riding public transit.

  “Nope,” Billy says, his breathless voice sounding excited. “Guess again.”

  “You and John eloped and you’re going to fly us all to the Mayan Riviera to celebrate?”

  “Uh-uh. But close! I am at the airport.”

  “Really?” I ask, leaning forward in my seat and straining to hear. I can now make out the female voice of an announcer making a boarding call. Did she say Haiti?

  “You’re going to HAITI?!” I yell, shocked. Now I have the attention of all the passengers. I glare at them, wishing I had a stick or something to swat them with.

  “Yes. Isn’t it exciting? I called my birth father after the party. I just picked up the phone and called him—they’re only three hours ahead. And he wants to meet me, like right away. I can’t believe it! This is a dream.”

  “Wow,” is all I can muster.

  “Tell me about it. They just made the final boarding call, so I’ve got to go, Laney. But I’ll be in touch when I can.”

  And just like that, he rings off leaving me stammering and wanting more. What about his business? How can he just up and go? I wonder what John thinks of all this, but I guess I’ll find out next week.

  “It’s me!” I holler at the intercom, and am buzzed into Dad’s building. I take the stairs and let myself into the apartment.

  “Suck that gut in, toots!” Riley shrieks in his high-pitched Brooklyn accent. A peal of giggles from Margo follows.

  What’s going on?

  “Just…almost… aah. Suck in your gut again, toots. I can’t do up the tape!”

  I round the corner and—why am I not surprised? Really.

  “I’ve never seen a puppet change a diaper,” I say, shaking my head.

  Riley whirls his freakish face around to greet me. “Yeah! Babysitting’s over!” Dad is of course lurking behind him and gives a cheery wave.

  “MOMMY!” Margo rips through the small apartment and lunges into my arms—which feels pretty nice. I smile at her and set off to find Rory. She’s under the kitchen table and grins at me, displaying two new baby teeth. I drop my bag on the floor and crawl under the table to greet her, with Margo giggling and wiggling alongside.

  “You wanna go camping? Park’s outside.” Riley’s seated on the floor beside me, and Dad is speaking for him from the kitchen.

  “Not around here, thanks,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I’ve been sweating my balls off looking after these kids,” Riley informs me.

  “Uncle Riley taught me karate,” Margo says, beaming. I frown at her and find myself about to question Riley as though he’s a real person. I have to stop doing this. “I learned punching and blocking,” Margo explains, and she jumps up and demonstrates a series of controlled punches and blocks. I can’t believe it! She actually looks convincing.

  “When did you learn karate, Dad?” I ask.

  Dad glances over and then goes back to fiddling with the Brita filter.

  “I don’t know karate, honey. Riley taught her.”

  Of course.

  “I learned Karate in Brooklyn. I had to build my street cred, toots. Ya know, me against the world.”

  I smile in spite of myself.

  Okay, party’s over, we’ve got to go. I stand up and stretch, noticing Dad’s apartment is once again clean and orderly. I’ll never understand what changed him. Maybe the plastic puppet is giving him some kind of purpose, and if that’s the case, I guess I can learn to put up with him. It. Whatever.

  “Thanks for taking the girls, Dad,” I say as I brush past him in search of a drinking glass.

  “They really missed you, Laney.”

  I meet Dad’s eyes. Is he joking? He nods and puts a hand on my shoulder giving it a squeeze. I try not to flinch or pull away. “Laney, you’re doing a great job. You need to remember they’ve become attached to you whether you wanted them to or not.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  “Dad, I don’t know where you’re going—”

  “Laney, I feel like you were scared to get close because you were so close with Mama. But you can’t stop love, honey. It just seeps in.”

  I don’t know what to say, but I manage to shrink away and break the eye contact. What’s gotten into him? And more importantly…is he ri
ght? Have I kept my distance all these years since Margo’s birth in hopes of protecting us both from getting too close, should we lose one another one day?

  “Laney, honey…”

  Dad continues, but I’ve had enough. I don’t want to talk about Mom anymore. I just can’t. I make a run for the bathroom, and once safe, splash cold water on my face and glance into the mirror to find my mascara running down my cheeks as if mocking me for the tears that just won’t come. I take a few deep breaths while staring into my sullen eyes, pat my face dry with a clean towel, and emerge from the bathroom, composed and determined to collect the girls and go home.

  The first odd thing I notice is Dad’s face. He has Rory cradled in his arms but looks like a deer in headlights. Slowly his eyes leave my face and travel across the room, resting on something I can’t see. I follow his gaze as if in slow motion…and there she is. Mom’s ghost. I suck in my breath and gape at her and take in the details, half loving her face, while the other part of me struggles to pull me away.

  “Hello, Lane,” she says in a small voice.

  “You’re here again?” is all I can muster. Margo beelines over instinctively and takes my hand.

  “Honey—Louisa brought supper,” Dad stammers.

  “Smells good to me, let’s eat!” Riley calls. He’s sitting on the couch by himself, paralyzed of course without my dad. That’s how I feel right now, paralyzed without my mom.

  “How often do you guys see each other?” I probe, narrowing my eyes. Dad and Louisa exchange uncomfortable looks, and a cold feeling starts creeping up the back of my neck. This is when I notice the small but delicate diamond solitaire on Louisa’s ring finger. My knees buckle, but I struggle to steady myself.

  “Lane, honey…are you all right?” Dad asks, passing Rory to Louisa of all people, and striding across the room to take my arm. He guides me to the closest chair, and I sink into it, numb. Margo stays at my side, concern etched in her small face. She doesn’t understand why I’m upset exactly, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I try to give her an appreciative smile, but fail miserably.