Chore Whore

by Heather H. Howard

“His skin feels wet.”

  “I slathered him with Coppertone. SPF 40. He burns easily.”

  With disdain, Blaise picks Mr. Fu up and puts him on the seat next to him. The dog shakes his nonexistent coat, then curls up and goes back to sleep.

  “Honey, he’s not going to be any trouble. We’ll just have him for a few days. It will be easier than me going up to her house two times a day to feed him and give him his shots.”

  · · ·

  For the next week, all I do is cook for Roberto, although I have yet to see him once. I deliver the food to the house daily, watch Mr. Fu, baby him, let him think he’s doing damage by nipping my heels with his gums and wait for a call from Lucy.

  She doesn’t call, at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Weeks go by without one speck of work. Jock’s gone, Daisy’s finished, and Esther, in the name of saving money, has been giving all my work to Shelly. I’m living on credit cards.

  Words float through my head: desperado, hopeless, forlorn. I dream about the Mojave Desert, drained pools and empty houses. I spend hours berating myself for quitting Jock in a moment of heated anger and days berating myself for not going with Jennifer. I volunteer at Blaise’s school, hoping to pick up some of the “new math” and chemistry. I’m not sure if it’s my constant presence or the more demanding academic atmosphere, but Blaise has become the teacher’s pet . . . again.

  I had visualized the outcome of my confrontation with Lucy very differently. I never expected her promises to go south and stay there. I thought I’d once again reign as princess of her home. I would do no wrong. She would even tell all her friends what a treasure I was and how she couldn’t have lived the last twenty years without me. She’d regale them with stories, which were news to me, of adventures we’d had in the past and how in every one I saved her from herself. She would butter me up and I would feel youthful and sweet. For my fortieth birthday she would throw a surprise lunch party at Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, complete with my favorite three-berry cake from Sweet Lady Jane bakery and a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate from Neiman Marcus.

  For the impending move to their new house, which they are still looking for, I would pack up as much of her stuff as I could without cramping her lifestyle. I would take Polaroid pictures of all the items I had carefully put in each box and labeled. The Polaroid camera would have been my gift to her. I would catalogue everything and take unwanted goodies to donation centers where I would get her huge tax write-offs for every item. I would call in Chipman United Van Lines to come give preliminary quotes on how much it would cost Lucy and Tommy Ray to move. Everything would have been done in perfect order, just as it always was. I would be happy. Lucy would be ecstatic. Bobby Sue would be miserable, which would make me even happier. Jolene would be getting some of Tommy on the side, which would upset Alejandra so much that she would threaten to quit. Tommy would increase her pay, give her extra time off and promise not to misbehave in front of her. Tommy would be very happy with his setup, too . . . in my vision.

  My phone rings.

  “Corki, it’s Lucy!” she says happily.

  I want to say “Lucy who?” but restrain myself.

  “Hi!” I say, forcing happiness into my voice.

  “Listen, I’m having a get-together at my house. A few of my women friends and I are going to start meeting once a month to have women’s discussions. I’d love it if you’d make lunch for us.”

  “I’ll do that. How many people and what day?” I ask.

  “Let’s see, me, obviously, Winona, Meg, Minnie, Angela, Sheryl, Melissa, Lisa Marie, Courteney, Lisa and Jennifer. That’s eleven, right? Yeah, eleven for Friday afternoon at one.”

  I swallow hard. Jennifer’s going to be there. Talk about your past coming back to haunt you. I wonder if Lucy’s doing this on purpose. I’m not sure whether to be happy or hate her.

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  I feel my two pints of Italian blood stirring within me. I decide a lunch of Italian fare, inspired by cooking for Roberto Tratelli, will be in order for Lucy’s get-together. An antipasto of warm bean salad with tuna and radicchio will start the meal, accompanied by a grilled polenta with wild mushrooms and sage breadsticks. For the primi, I will cook a risotto with crab and shrimp followed by a secondi of coniglio in vino rossi (rabbit in red wine) or the alternative for the less brave souls of swordfish stuffed with breadcrumbs, tomatoes and capers. For the contorni to accompany the secondi, I will serve Swiss chard with raisins and pine nuts and mushrooms in a tomato sauce. I will serve just one dolci, a torta di mele al burro (buttery apple cake). As far as I’m concerned, this will be a feast for a king, or a count, or a bunch of movie stars, one of whom I am trying to make sure remembers me and another whom I’m sorry I didn’t choose.

  The morning of the party, I chop and dice and sauté while I pour my whole story out to Alejandra. She is appalled by how poorly I’ve been treated. By the time I’m done cooking and kvetching, I feel much better. A sympathetic ear is what I needed.

  I leave after giving thorough instructions to Alejandra on how to serve the meal. As I close the front door, I hear Tommy Ray fiddling around in the garage looking for something he can’t find. He’s getting agitated. Apparently, Lucy didn’t plan for a grumbling Tommy Ray Woods to be hanging around, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

  My cell phone rings.

  “Hello, this is Corki!”

  “This is Jock.”

  And that’s when I make my mistake. A biggie.

  “Jock?” I say, somewhat in shock.

  Tommy Ray appears suddenly out of the darkness of the garage. His eyes flash rage and he’s wielding a metal baseball bat. He raises it as if he’s ready to beat the tar out of me. He swings it wildly and smashes the passenger side of Lucy’s Ferrari windshield. Glass fragments and pellet-shaped chips fly everywhere.

  I stand transfixed for a second, then throw my phone in my bag and run up the hill toward Betty parked at the top. Tommy screams violently after me.

  “Corki, you goddamned money-hungry bitch, you better never mention another one of that cunt’s men in front of me again. You hear me?” He pauses. “Do you hear me? I’ll take this bat to you next time if either one of you fat-ass cows ever mentions another man’s name around me. You hear me?”

  I burn rubber leaving the house. The image of his huge Confederate flag in the bedroom had already made me uncomfortable, and with this volatile performance, I never want to come back here again. Lucy might come home someday and find me hanging from the front oak tree.

  By the time I get down the hill, I’m shaking so badly I can’t drive. I pull Betty over. Tommy Ray is the devil incarnate.

  My phone rings again.

  “Please, don’t hang up on me this time,” Jock says. I can tell from the slight slur of his words that he’s had more than his one glass of red wine for heart-healthy purposes.

  “I didn’t mean to hang up. It was an accident,” I say as I pull tiny bits of shattered glass out of my hair.

  “Corki, you didn’t really quit, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But you cleaned up the house, canceled the painters and dropped off a new set of keys to the business office. My accountant went to the house and everything was in order. He even said Jaws was being taken care of. If it wasn’t you doing it, who was it?” he asks.

  “I didn’t want the fish to die.”

  “I misjudged you.”

  “You most certainly did,” I say triumphantly. “I’ve been loyal to you for a long time, not that you’ve noticed. I put myself in harm’s way to keep you from getting robbed and all you had to say was ‘Mind your own fucking business.’ It didn’t exactly make feel valued. And then to be accused of extortion . . .”

  “Corki, I’m sorry. Do you accept my apology?”

  He must have had more to drink than I originally thought. Jock never apologizes. Never.

  “Do you?” he asks again.

&
nbsp; “Does it matter if I do or not?” I ask.

  “Well, actually, no, it doesn’t.”

  There! That’s the Jock I know.

  “I need you to help me,” he goes on. “You’re the only one I can trust to do this properly. I don’t want my accountant in my personal affairs. Please say you will.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I was upset. I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry. Let’s move on from there.”

  “Jock, what do you want from me?”

  “Hubert, that low-life piece of triplet shit, called and left a message on my machine. He wants money to return the DVDs.”

  “Okay, Jock. What’s on the DVD?”

  “Tree. And me. Having sex.” He’s barely able to spit it out.

  “You mean underage sex. Statutory rape. In some states it’s called child molestation, right?”

  “Mmmmmm. Yes.”

  “I see. How much money does Hubert want?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars,” Jock whispers.

  “You’re not going to succumb to that, are you?” I say, suddenly indignant. “It’s going to leak out anyway.”

  “He promised he’d give you the DVDs and he swears he didn’t make any copies. He’ll even sign a paper saying that he didn’t,” he insists.

  “And you believe that? Then when it hits the Internet he’ll say that his signature was forged and he’ll be raking in not only the hundred grand but also a fifty-dollar-per-view fee. You’re making a mistake if you do this. You better hurry up and consult your attorney. Not me.”

  “This will ruin me,” he says, his voice catching.

  I stifle the urge to say ‘You should have thought of that before you did it.’

  “Well, it didn’t ruin Roman Polanski. The Academy loves him even though he fled the country rather than stand trial.”

  “Enough, please! I don’t want to hear about that,” Jock interrupts. “Corki, if by chance Hubert is telling the truth . . .”

  “Which he’s not,” I interject.

  “. . . it will be worth it to just wash my hands of the whole thing.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Call your business office and say I need a hundred grand in cash?” I ask, exasperated. “How exactly is this supposed to work?”

  “Hubert will be calling you.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll make it worth your while. I promise. Very worth your while.”

  “But how is it supposed to work?” I insist.

  “He’ll be calling you, you’ll give him the money, and he’ll hand you the DVDs.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “I’ve seen too many movies where the woman who knows too much gets dumped in the sea with concrete blocks tied to her feet and a sock shoved in her mouth.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, stop it! Cornelia, this is not some far-fetched movie! This is my life. There will be no concrete and no socks!” he yells.

  “Can’t you come back here and do it? Take a forty-eight-hour leave?”

  “I am in every scene of this movie and cannot leave. This has to be done by you. I can’t exactly ask a stranger to deliver a hundred thousand dollars of my hard-earned money to that shit who is extorting me. Goddamn it, woman, I’m trying to employ you but you’re being so fucking obstinate I can’t bear it.”

  He hangs up on me. I wonder if he knows he’s getting off cheap at a hundred thousand.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Cornelia, it is ten o’clock at night and I know good and well you’re home screening your calls. This is Lucille! I expect you to pick up your phone right now!”

  I hover over the answering machine wondering whether to give in to her command. I pick up the receiver.

  “What?”

  “What happened over here? I come home with my friends in tow and it looks like there’s been a car accident in my front yard!”

  “What did Tommy Ray tell you?”

  “He said you mentioned Jock’s name and he got a little bothered. Said he doesn’t want you around here anymore while you’re still working for my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Lucy, all I did was answer my phone. I’m not working for Jock anymore and your lover boy got more than ‘a little bothered.’ He blew a gasket. He totally lost it. He picked up a baseball bat, acted like he was going to kill me, then beat the shit out of your car. He called me a ‘money-hungry bitch,’ you a ‘cunt’ and both of us ‘fat-ass cows’! I’m telling you, Lucy, you better leave that man before you find your ass hacked up with a hatchet.”

  “Corki, I love him. He’s just a little jealous is all.”

  “A little? Lucy, you may not be alive for me to say ‘I told you so,’ so I’m gonna do it right now: I told you so!”

  “I’m going to choose to ignore that comment, Corki. I’m actually calling with some good news,” she says proudly.

  “I could use some good news about now.”

  “We found a house! We put down a deposit and we’re trying for a fifteen-day escrow. Aren’t you thrilled for us?”

  “Us who? Us, Lucy and Tommy? Or us, Lucy, Tommy, Thing One and Thing Two?”

  “Well, the girls haven’t found an apartment of their own yet, so they will be moving in with us for a while.”

  “I’m thrilled for you,” I say flatly.

  Heavens, I’m as bad at lying as Bobby Sue.

  “Well, babe, if you get a chance, drive by tomorrow and take a look. Also, you can go ahead and start bringing packing equipment. You know, we’ll need boxes, tape, bubble wrap, the works. But Tommy actually wants the girls to do the packing.”

  “But Lucy, you said—”

  “I know, I know. Things just need to cool down around here. Besides, he just got a film shooting down in Mexico for six months, so you won’t have to deal with him much at all.” She sighs. “I’m going to miss him, but I’ll be going down there as much as I can. Babe, do try to go by the new house and let me know what you think. You know how I value your opinion.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She gives me the address and we say our goodbyes, murmuring all the platitudes that neither one of us means anymore.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Miss Corki!” I hear on my answering machine. “It’s Mrs. Shay Goode!”

  Shay, Jock’s financial account manager for the last seven years, calls from Maginniss, Crest and O’Leary, the business office that manages the money for Hollywood’s biggest movie stars. M.C.O. sits on Ocean Walk in Venice Beach. Its serious business image is slightly eroded by the tracks of sand leading up to the front door, an ocean breeze coming in through open windows that constantly blows papers off the desks, and an outdoor shower utilized by employees who surf or swim on their lunch break. M.C.O. is also the only accounting firm I know, and I’m familiar with many, that employs forty-four women, of whom thirty-eight are black. Around town this is seen as a particularly smart hiring strategy because when the partners fire someone, it can never be attributed to color. When I hear that there are never enough blacks behind the scenes of the film industry, I want to dump that person at the entrance of M.C.O. These women manage the hundreds of millions of dollars their stars earn.

  I pick up the phone.

  “Top of the morning to you, Mrs. Goode. To what fortune do I owe your call?”

  “Oh, brother. You need to come into the office. I have a package for you. ASAP.”

  “What is it?”

  “Come in and you’ll see.”

  I shower quickly, get dressed and get on the 10 freeway head-ing west to Venice Beach. Finding street parking immediately and giving a nod to the parking gods, I get buzzed into the office of M.C.O.

  “Haven’t seen you in a long time!” says Yvonne, queen of the front office. A grandmother at forty-two, she keeps the office workers on a tight leash, but still remains well liked. She’s been with M.C.O. since its conception.

  “Same here!” Shay announces as she walks into the recep
tion area. “Come on back here and see my new office,” she says, leading the way.

  Her new office is much nicer than the last one. The top half of one wall overlooks the sea. “Hey, hey, looks like you’ve moved up in the pecking order.”

  “So have you, apparently,” she says.

  “No. My whole career is falling apart before my eyes and I’m hustling to get some semblance of order back to it.”

  “I might be able to help some with that.”

  “Got a new client for me?” I ask.

  “Nope, better than that.”

  “All right. Give it up.”

  Shay unlocks her drawer and spreads a fan of one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  “Damn, Shay, you’re loaded!”

  “No, you are. There are sixty of them and it’s been requested that you count it, then sign right here saying that you’ve received the money,” she says as she pushes a form toward me.

  “Stop messing with me,” I declare, praying she’s not.

  “This is for you, too. We received an early-morning FedEx and explicit instructions from Jock to give this to you along with the six thousand dollars in cash.” She hands me a sealed, taped manila envelope. On the outside, in Jock’s handwriting, is printed OPEN IN PRIVATE.

  “So, tell me, Mrs. Corki, what did you do to deserve this?”

  “I quit.”

  “You quit? So, I’ve been using the wrong tactics all this time by staying?”

  “I’m serious. I quit and I hung up on him.”

  Shay raises her eyebrows. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “Yeah. I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll count the money when I come back.”

  I walk down the hallway with the envelope stuffed under my arm. I enter a stall, close the door and lean down to check to see if there’s anyone else in here with me.

  I open the envelope carefully and read the note written in Jock’s handwriting.

  Corki,

  Please accept the $6,000 Shay will be giving you as a token of my appreciation. I talked to Jerald and he pointed out I have not given you a Christmas bonus or birthday present for six years.