Better With You Here (9781609417819)

by Zepeda, Gwendolyn

  I really hate wearing other people’s shoes. It grosses me out. Like, I’ll get my jeans and stuff from the thrift store, but not my shoes. No matter how broke I am, I have to have my own shoes, even if they’re just some clearance shit from Payless.

  Why? I don’t know. Maybe ’cause when I was little my mom always made me wear my brother’s shoes after he grew out of them. And his were always nasty. I don’t know.

  Hmm? Oh, yeah. So she said I should wear her shoes. And I figured Lisa’s a pretty clean-looking chick, so they can’t be that bad. And she pulled out a red pair, to match the robe I had on, and I just closed my eyes and stuck my feet in them. And then we went.

  I don’t know. It was okay.

  I mean, it wasn’t fun or sexy or anything, but I sat there through the whole thing. I didn’t get up and run anyway.

  She just told him I was a new girl and I had to watch a few dances before I could start taking my own clients. And he was all like, “Oh, how nice. Maybe you’ll dance for me someday.” Like we were talking about a normal job and he was going to be my boss. I kind of wanted to laugh when he said that, but I just smiled and didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to piss him off and cost Lisa her tips.

  He sat down on the little couch thing, and I was in a chair off to the side. Lisa put on her music—there was a little boom box in the corner and she’d brought a CD in with her. This slow song came on, and she took off her robe and started dancing around.

  No, because I had seen her dance before, practically butt naked, at the Cabaret. And I’d seen plenty of customers sitting there getting off on it. But yeah, I guess it was kind of weird to be sitting next to them instead of serving drinks.

  Really, though, it was mostly funny. He kept doing stupid shit, and I kept having to hold back from laughing at him.

  Well, like, halfway through the first song, Lisa did this move where she turned around and bent backward, so her hair touched his lap. And when she did, he put his fingers in her hair, like it was rain or something, and he said, “Oh, so beautiful.” Or something cheesy like that.

  Oh, and then, at the end, when she was totally naked, she stopped and said she was thirsty, and that fool got up and poured her a glass of water from the table on the side. Then he told her he had a surprise for her. And she said okay, and she sat next to him on the couch. But he didn’t touch her. He pulled a box out of his jacket and made her open it, and it was a freaking bracelet.

  Yeah. A gold one. Like, the old serpentine chain that nobody wears anymore. But I guess it was real gold, because it was so thin and the box looked expensive, you know?

  Yeah, she took it. She let him put it around her wrist, and it took him forever, probably because he had arthritis or some shit. Then, when he finally got it on her, she told him thanks and leaned forward and let him kiss her on the cheek. Like they were on some old-school date and she wasn’t sitting there butt naked. Like she really liked him and wasn’t only there because he was paying her.

  Yeah, he paid her right there. Well, he left the money on the table. He had to put the whole fee—a hundred for Lisa and fifty for the door—on that little table as soon as he came in. That’s the rule. But when he left, he put down some more money for a tip. After he was gone, Lisa showed me. She made two hundred dollars for twenty minutes of dancing.

  Hell yeah, I was impressed. That’s a lot of fucking money.

  No, no one made that kind of money at Neno’s. Are you kidding me? They would’ve been lucky to pull a twenty for a lap dance at that shit hole.

  Sorry. I keep telling myself I’m not going to curse in here, in front of you. But I get all into it and forget.

  Oh, man. I should’ve been out of here half an hour ago. Now I owe you extra. Shit.

  Really? You sure?

  All right. Thanks a lot. I’ll see you next time, then.

  Natasha

  I should have left Alex and Lucia at Geronima’s a little longer so I could get some laundry done without having to drag them back and forth with me. The kids don’t like staying in the apartment by themselves when it’s dark out, but Alex hates doing laundry. He’s dying of boredom and acts like he’s undergoing torture just being here. What else is new, though? Lucia, on the other hand, is easier to please. She’s examining the vending machines, completely fascinated by them, as if she never saw soda and detergent before. I guess they do look kind of exciting, lit up behind the glass like that.

  Every ten minutes I glance around and make sure we’re still alone—that Laundry Pervert hasn’t suddenly appeared. If he does, however, I’ll confront him directly, just like Sara did.

  “Can we go to Goodburgers?” Alex asks. As if we didn’t just eat chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner.

  He misses the way we used to go there on weeknights sometimes, when we lived with Mike. He misses it the way I miss my washer and dryer. Feeling like a Scrooge, I say, “No, sweetie, we can’t right now. Maybe this weekend.” His scowl hurts a little, but I ignore it and hand him another pair of jeans to fold.

  Do I wish I could afford to take the kids somewhere other than a fast-food drive-through? Yes. Do I wish we were someplace fun right now, instead of standing here folding our underwear while strangers parade through and stare? Of course. But wishes aren’t horses, so dreamers can’t ride, as my mom used to say, before I corrected her and she called me a smart-mouthed brat.

  Thank God for Geronima at least. The woman’s a freaking godsend. She actually enjoyed watching the kids. I can’t believe she didn’t even want me to pay her for it. I assume they’re doing okay financially, probably living off Oscar’s pension and the sale of the house they used to live in. But I’m glad Oscar took the money from me anyway.

  I wish the kids had a grandmother like Geronima. As opposed to my mom, now that she’s morphed into a bitter alcoholic. And Mike’s prissy Baptist witch of a mother, who they never see anyway.

  Everything’s folded now, so I give Lucia my last few quarters, and she uses them to buy a miniature box of fabric softener, which transports her into paradise. Then I give Alex the lighter basket to carry, grab everything else, and tell Lucia to hold the door so we can head back to the apartment.

  “This basket’s hurting my hands,” Alex says. Every step down the hall, he acts like he’s going to drop it or keel over from exhaustion.

  I imagine my mother standing here saying, “God gave you a whiny kid for all the times you were such a pain in the butt to me.” I remember all the errands I ran with her as a child—me complaining and her telling me to shut up. Alex is a lot like I was as a child. And that’s why I totally know where he’s coming from.

  I also know that the basket isn’t too heavy for him to carry, though. It’s only a third full—the rest of the clothes are on hangers, folded over my left arm, which is starting to go numb. Alex is upset because he’s bored. We didn’t go to the park today, and there’s nothing on TV, and he’s tired of all his video games and comics.

  “It’s a good thing we live on the first floor and not the third,” I tell him. “You probably have just enough strength to make it.” He scowls again. “Besides, I need you to carry the basket so I can keep one of my hands free.”

  “Why?” he says, dragging the word into two or three syllables.

  “So I can be ready in case anything happens.”

  “Like what?” he says, skeptical yet interested.

  I say, “Like monsters. Villains. Laundry assassins. I have to be ready to protect us.” I indicate a skinny old lady coming down the hall in the opposite direction, carrying a scared-stiff little dog.

  I see that Alex wants to laugh, or at least crack a smile. Instead he says, “What about Lucia? How come she doesn’t have to carry anything?”

  I look down at his sister, who is totally spaced out in a search for pennies on the hallway floor. I wonder if she even hears us. “Your sister’s not like you and me, Alex. She hasn’t yet learned our ninja ways.”

  He rolls his eyes at me, but I know he’
s masking a smile now. I swear, he’s like a teenager already, the way he doesn’t give me an inch. He’s too smart for his own good, and for mine. I tell him, “We’re almost there. You can make it. Hey, maybe we’ll go to Goodburgers this weekend. If you behave and keep helping me out like a big boy.”

  “You mean like the man of the house,” he says.

  Now it’s my turn to stifle a laugh. He must have heard someone say that on TV. “Right. Exactly.”

  It’s not until the kids are passed out from an extra-long chapter of Harry Potter—and all the lights in the apartment are out, and I’ve showered and gotten into bed—that I can think about what might happen the next time I have a break. Not this weekend but the next, when the kids are gone again.

  I probably won’t call Hector. But what if I did?

  Again, it’s the shifting-sexiness thing. In theory he isn’t sexy. Alone in the hotel room, magically, he is. It’s just like how in the daytime I’m pretty sure that I’m not ready for any kind of relationship with a man, much less a sex-only thing with some sad divorced dad. But at night, here in the dark…

  It’s been more than three weeks since the last time, but I remember it like it’s happening right now, right here under the covers. I reach down to help myself remember better. His weight on top of me, the strength of his arms. I can almost feel it right now, as if he’s here with me. He’s pushing, slamming inside of me. I do feel it. Oh, God, I feel it right now. Yes…

  The phone rings. The freaking phone would ring right at this moment. God, and it’s Mike. “Hello.”

  “Natasha. It’s Mike.”

  I want to say, I know it is, Sherlock. Because of course it’d be him, calling when I’m trying to have a freaking orgasm. It fits right into his pattern of sucking all the pleasure out of my life.

  “Natasha? You there?”

  It’s still strange to hear him say my name like this. Not that I want him to keep calling me Nat, or Natty, like he did when we were married. He used to say that the name Natasha didn’t really fit me. That was something that he and my mother agreed on. She thought giving me such a glamorous name would ensure that I’d grow up thin and fabulous. She was wrong.

  I don’t know what he could call me now, to keep from sounding uncomfortable. Mrs. Davila? In the best-case scenario, actually, I’d never have to hear him speak at all. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your big lawsuit against me?” I say.

  “That’s what I’m calling about,” he says. “I want to drop the suit.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. All you have to do is sign these papers I’ve drawn up, saying that Alex can live with me. Then I’ll drop the suit and we won’t have to pay the mediator’s fees.”

  I sit up in bed. “Are you kidding me?” I say.

  There’s a quiet shushing noise in the background, and I wonder if his girlfriend’s next to him, listening in.

  He says, “Look, I’m not going to argue with you right now. I’m just letting you know. I’m checking into some stuff, and if you’re not willing to consider handing him over to me, things are going to get a lot worse for you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Mike?” God, I hate to lose my temper, but it’s too late. My heart starts racing like I’m in a physical fight. Who does he think he is, calling and talking to me like this?

  He says, “See, you’re already starting. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to talk to you. I should have just went ahead with my plans.” He uses his most irritating tone of voice, the one that’s whiny and aggressive at the same time.

  “You aren’t trying to talk to me. You’re threatening me,” I say. “There’s no reason for Alex to live with you. Why are you doing this now?”

  “I’m not doing it now. I’ve been thinking about it since you left.”

  I have to work to keep my voice down, not to wake the kids. “That’s a lie. You didn’t even ask for custody during the divorce!”

  He says, “Yeah, because I knew the judge would just give it to you, because you’re the woman. But I should’ve done more research before letting them go. Now I’m thinking maybe the judge didn’t make the right choice.”

  “What are you talking about?” I practically hiss. God, I wish I could reach through the phone and punch him. “You didn’t even want custody! Don’t pretend you’re worried about the kids now!”

  “I am worried about them! Living there in that rathole, with you and your bad temper. Who knows what’s going on over there without me to watch?”

  “Oh, my God.” I feel the blood pounding in my head, just like it used to. We may as well be in bed together, screaming at each other in the middle of the night.

  This is why I left him, the crap I refused to deal with anymore. And here I am being forced to deal with it. It’s like there’s no escaping him—or the misery he creates.

  “Go to hell, Mike. You didn’t care about the kids when we were living with you, so don’t act like you suddenly started. Just because you never disciplined them and don’t know how to do it now—”

  He cuts me off, talking louder, exactly like he used to. “All right, shut up. I’m not listening to you. I didn’t call to hear this shit. I just called to talk to you, in a reasonable way, but you don’t know how to be reasonable. Listen to the way you’re cursing at me now. That’s one of the things I’m going to put on the list for the judge. You’ll see what he thinks of that when he calls you in and takes the kids away from you.”

  “You…damned…”

  And the phone is dead. That asshole hung up on me.

  I call him back. It rings five times before he picks up. Then, before I can say anything, he hangs up on me again. My pulse is pounding in my neck, my hands, the tips of my freaking toes. I call back.

  It rings three times and then goes to voice mail. I hang up and call back again. He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to sit here and let him say all those lies and not defend myself.

  He picks up and hangs up again. It’s okay. I can do this all night, you son of a bitch. I call him back again. Five rings and he picks up.

  “Don’t hang up, asshole.”

  “Natasha. It’s Missy.”

  Oh, wow. That coward had his girlfriend answer the phone. “Let me talk to Mike,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” she says.

  “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Mike,” I say.

  “Natasha, I really don’t think the two of you should talk anymore until you’ve calmed down some.”

  Who does this bitch think she is, sticking her nose in my business and telling me to calm down? “Missy, this doesn’t concern you, so I don’t care what you think. Hand the phone to Mike, please.”

  “I beg your pardon, but it does concern me, because it’s taking place in my house.”

  What a freaking bitch. I hear Mike in the background. He says, “Let me talk to her.”

  But she doesn’t give him the phone. She tells me, “I heard what Mike said to you, and I can see how it probably came out sounding different from what he intended—”

  I say, “Missy, I don’t want to talk to you. Either hand the phone to him or hang up.”

  “Well, I guess I’m going to hang up, then. It’s getting late, and I don’t want this to go on all night. We have work in the morning.” She thinks she’s some kind of mediator—some voice of reason. I don’t need to be lectured by someone dumb enough to get involved with another woman’s ex-​husband, a man proven to be defective.

  I tell her, “I have work in the morning, too. Your boyfriend’s the one who started this. If you don’t want any trouble, keep his ass from calling and threatening me.”

  She hangs up.

  When I call back, Mike’s phone doesn’t ring. It goes directly to voice mail. I know better than to leave a message. I learned from our divorce that losing my temper on voice mail won’t do me any favors. But I can’t say nothing, so I say, “I just want you to know that you’re going to be sorry you
started this. The kids don’t want to live with you.” Then I push the hang-up button as hard as I can. But it doesn’t take away any of the anger.

  There’s no way he’s going to get custody. Like Joanne said, we’ll go to mediation, he’ll realize that his accusations make him look like a raving lunatic, and he’ll drop the case. I know that. He’s just trying to push my buttons, to torture me.

  Knowing that he’s wrong doesn’t make me feel any calmer. And it certainly won’t keep me from staying up and worrying until my alarm goes off six hours from now, at 5:30 A.M.

  God, I hate him. I hate the way he makes me practically blind with rage, like a monster. Once again he’s made me angry with myself, for not seeing what he was until it was too late.

  Natasha

  The last time we went to Goodburgers…

  The kids begged for strawberry milk shakes. I said no, then Mike said yes. “C’mon, Nat. We’re trying to have fun here.” Then he smiled, maybe winked at the sixteen-year-old girl taking our order. She gave him the same zombie expression that she’d give any other customer and handed him our buzzer.

  The kids begged for quarters to ride the space shuttle in the game room. I only had two quarters, so Mike gave them a five-dollar bill for the change machine. Mr. Good Times to the rescue. Then it was him and me, alone at the table. So he took out his phone and began a long, in-depth conversation with it. Mike always had the most expensive phone with the newest technology—always the best avoidance device. I watched the interactions among the teenage staff. The boy refilling the ice in the soda fountains was obviously in love with the girl who took our order. The girl sweeping under the booths was obviously in love with that boy. I wondered how many of them would go to college and move on to better things.