Better With You Here (9781609417819)

by Zepeda, Gwendolyn

  Jesus. This is why I’m not ready to start dating yet. It’s too much. Too many mistakes to make and petty details to worry about.

  For instance, why am I even thinking about this now, going through this checklist of dating behavior to see if that’s what I’m doing with Hector? I already told him this wouldn’t be anything serious, precisely because I didn’t want to obsess about it like I’m doing right now. Stop thinking about it. Move forward.

  I’m standing in front of the apartments, in the cold, and Mike’s supposed to be here with the kids, and of course he’s late. Mike always loved to leave me hanging, waiting like a servant or like a dog tied to a park bench.

  My phone rings. It’s Geronima. “Natasha,” she says in her somewhat raspy voice, “what time are you guys coming over for Thanksgiving?”

  I can’t believe Thanksgiving’s already here. It’s this Thursday. “I don’t know,” I say. “What time is good for you?”

  She talks to me about the time, the menu, and the characters on her favorite reality show. An old Tahoe pulls into the parking lot, and after a few moments I realize that Mike’s driving it and Missy’s in the passenger seat. It must be her car.

  In my ear Geronima says, “I’ll see you Thursday, then.”

  I hang up and prepare myself for battle. I hope Mike won’t start anything with me, but if he does, I’m ready for him. And his little girlfriend, too.

  I can see Alex and Lucia in the backseat now, sharing it with Missy’s toddler son. They look tired. Maybe a bit anxious, anticipating the inevitable tension between their dad and me. Mike parks directly in front of me but doesn’t make eye contact. I see Missy put her hand on his, on the steering wheel. To comfort him? Bolster his confidence? The kids clamber out of the back doors and join me on the sidewalk. And then Mike pulls away, without a glance in my direction.

  Surprising. He must have talked to his lawyer, or to someone who advised him that threatening me wasn’t the way to go. I wish again that I’d recorded that phone conversation. I should buy a tape recorder and start recording them all from now on, just in case. I’m going to ask Joanne what she thinks about that. Maybe if I catch Mike acting like a jerk on tape, it’ll give me the ammunition I need to make him back off.

  Sara

  Hey. How’s it going?

  I’m okay. Kind of tired. They had some show at the school last night. Monique’s class did a dance, and Angelica sang a song and played these little bells. It was cute as hell. But the whole thing took forever. We didn’t get out of the school until nine o’clock. Baby Junior was acting like a brat at the end, and I kept having to grab him and put him back in his chair. But I took a bunch of pictures of the girls in the show.

  Right, for black history. How’d you know?

  Yeah, I’ll show them to you.

  Thanks. Yeah, you’re right. She does look like me, kind of. Monique looks more like her dad.

  Yeah, Natasha’s kids still go to that school. I think she was there. I don’t know. I didn’t look around too much, you know? Her daughter was in the dance with Monique, though, so Natasha was probably there to see that. See, she’s this one right here, in the purple shirt.

  I don’t know. Yeah, maybe. I didn’t want to find out, though. That would’ve been embarrassing, if I’d walked up to her and she didn’t want to talk to me.

  Last time? Yeah, I remember. I was telling you that I called Neno, and he said my mom had been trying to get hold of me. She was mad because I’d quit working for him.

  It’s kind of a long story. There was a lot going on with that, you know? I used to do a bunch of messed-up stuff with them. Like, I’d work for Neno, but he’d pay me under the table, and he’d do something on his taxes to get an extra break. Then I’d file for unemployment and share the money with my mom. I’d get WIC for her, too. You know, the free food they give you if you’re poor and have kids? I’d give my mom all the cereal and cheese and stuff, and that’s what she and my brother would eat all day. Then, on top of that, she’d claim that me and the kids lived with her, and she’d get welfare for being the head of household for all those people.

  No, hell no. Not anymore. I quit doing all that, and that was why she got mad.

  I don’t know. I told her I was doing my own taxes this year—Jackie hooked me up with this accountant guy who’s helping me do it—and I told her I was using my real address, at the apartments. If she tries to claim me and they send somebody to her house, they’re going to see she’s lying. And if anyone asks me, I’m going to say I don’t talk to her anymore. It’s not even a lie.

  What do you mean? I feel fine.

  Oh, you mean because I don’t talk to my mom anymore? I don’t care about that. She never had anything good to say to me anyway.

  I just mean, you know, she was always bitching at me about something. Complaining that I wasn’t bringing her enough money or that I wasn’t helping her do whatever stupid scam she was trying to pull. Back when she used to baby-sit the kids, she’d complain that they were brats and they never behaved. She’d say, “That Angelica’s a little smart-mouthed bitch, just like you used to be.” Which is a total lie—Angelica’s nothing like I used to be. I was a brat. She’s a good kid.

  That’s why I quit taking them over there. That, and I met Gero when she was first looking to do baby-sitting at our apartments. I was happy as hell about that—gave me an excuse to quit going to my mom’s and listening to her bullshit.

  You know what’s funny? The whole time I was living with her, when I was growing up, she’d treat me bad. She’d slap me around and say it was because I was a brat. Then, when I got older, she started calling me a little whore. That’s why I dropped out of school and took off with Angelica’s dad. My mom thought it was because I got pregnant, but that didn’t happen until later. I just had to get the hell away from her, you know?

  So after all this time, she ends up being right. Her daughter’s a whore now.

  No, I’m just kidding. I’m just saying that’s what she’d call me if she knew.

  You’re right. That’s a good point. She was calling me names either way. You know what? Let’s not talk about her anymore. What’s that thing they say? Let’s leave the past alone.

  I don’t know. You mean, do I feel bad when I’m doing it or do I feel ashamed of myself in general? When I’m there, it’s no big deal. Taking my clothes off for those dudes is nothing. It’s kind of funny, when I think about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m ripping them off, you know? They’re paying me a lot of money just to see me naked and maybe for me to pretend that I care about them for half an hour. Meanwhile I’m dancing around thinking about stuff me and the other girls were talking about in the dressing room or what I’m going to get the kids for dinner. Like, the other day I had my Japanese client come in. He’s this guy who likes to come in and look at my feet. He has one of those fetishes, you know, and my feet are the smallest out of all the girls’. So he came in, and I had just been looking at the videos on Caitlyn’s laptop. I like to check out this site that has all these funny videos of cats, you know? Have you seen that one?

  All right, so they have this one of a mother cat with all her kittens, and she’s trying to walk around, but the kittens are trying to drink milk. So she gets up and takes off, and two of the kittens are hanging on to her with their mouths and they won’t let go. So she’s just dragging them around, and they’re steadily sucking on her. I guess you have to see it for yourself. It has this funny music that goes along with it. So anyway, I kept thinking of those cats while I was dancing for my Japanese guy. And then I was thinking about getting a laptop for our apartment, so I can show the cat videos to the kids. Caitlyn said she’d help me hook up the wireless or whatever it’s called. And then, next thing I knew, the half hour was up and I had two hundred extra bucks.

  But I get what you’re saying. You’re asking if I feel bad about being a stripper. And I don’t know. I guess it looks that way, since I don’t tell people about it. But it’s nobody’s busines
s anyway, right? I mean, there’s a lot of people who don’t talk about what they do for a living.

  Sometimes I think, why should I be ashamed? Look how I grew up—all ghetto and shit, with no dad and a crackhead brother. Then I dropped out of school and had a bunch of kids with no dads. What else was I gonna be?

  But at least I’m stripping in a good place, and I’m making more money than those skanks down at Neno’s. Right?

  No, I do remember what I said. I said I wanted to be a better mom, like Haley and Natasha. Well, like Natasha anyway. But it’s different for them. They have it easier, because they didn’t grow up like me.

  Yeah, I still do. Didn’t I tell you? I started my GED classes last week. But I need to make more money before I can quit the Dollhouse. I can’t go back to how it was before, when we needed to pull scams with my mom in order to have enough groceries.

  I guess you could say I’m ashamed, because I don’t want people to know what I’m doing. But if they did find out, and if they knew why, I wouldn’t feel bad about it. There’s no shame in doing the best you can to take care of your kids, and right now this is the best I can do for mine.

  I just wish I’d told Natasha everything, right off the bat. It probably wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least I wouldn’t feel like a damned liar and a sorry excuse for a friend.

  Natasha

  I’m going to die and go to hell. That’s what happens when you lie to your family on the holidays, right? I told my mother the kids were with Mike for Thanksgiving, which is true. Then, just now, I told her I couldn’t make it to her house after all, because I was spending the day with some friends who didn’t have families of their own. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. I am going to Geronima’s, but not until later.

  Too bad. Who cares? I can’t go to Mom’s. I just don’t want to hear her voice, especially not after she’s filled up with Seagram’s and Diet Sprite. She has my brother and his wife to eat with. That’s plenty. I’ve already called my dad and wished him a happy Thanksgiving on his voice mail. That’s plenty, too. He’s doing fine by himself up there in Asheville.

  The kids have been gone since yesterday. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. So why do I feel guilty?

  I don’t. Not anymore.

  “What are you thinking about?” Hector reaches over and brushes my hair back, so he can see my face.

  “Nothing,” I say. I scoot closer to him on the bed, turn onto my side so that my face is against his shoulder, as if he’s taller than me. I pull the blanket over my legs. It’s cold in here now, but his body’s still hot.

  “Is your mother okay with you not going over there for Thanksgiving?” he says.

  “She’s fine,” I tell him. If he can ask that, I can ask a personal question of my own. “Are you okay not being with your kids?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. They’ll have more fun with my ex,” he says. “More cousins to run around with.”

  That’s mature of him, to admit that.

  The sun is starting to peek between the drapes. Hector turns toward me and wraps his arm around the small of my back. The medium of my back, more like. He buries his face in my hair, the way he likes to do, and says, “I’m glad you stayed the night.”

  I say, “I’m glad you found a nicer hotel.”

  He dips his head and takes my ear in his teeth, pretends he’s about to bite. Moves his hand from my back to between my legs. Twirls his fingers and gently tugs. “I’m glad you don’t shave.”

  I bite him back, on the neck, hard enough to make him groan, because I know he likes it. “What is this, your Thanksgiving list? All the things you’re grateful for?”

  He chuckles. “It’s a good list, isn’t it? I have a lot to give thanks for right now.”

  Me, too—for the moment at least. Hector moves down below the blankets, kissing as he goes, and I feel thankful indeed.

  Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I could swear there’s someone watching me as I say good-bye to Hector and get into my car. I feel someone staring, out of the corner of my eye. I turn and look across the street, and there’s a flicker of movement in the windshield of a small silver car. No, that car’s empty. It must have been the reflection of that tree’s branches, moving in the wind.

  Is that the same car from the other hotel? The one with the pervert who smiled at me? Or was that car more of a taupe?

  I really am being paranoid now. I need to go to therapy or something. Why do I feel so guilty about this, when Mike’s been sleeping with someone for months now?

  Safe in the Blazer, I check my phone. There’s a message from Joanne. She says that yes, I could record my phone conversations with Mike, but they wouldn’t be admissible if we actually ended up in court, and that it’s not worth doing if I’m saying anything inflammatory in our conversations myself.

  Well, maybe I shouldn’t bother with it, then. It’s not like I really need tapes of our conversations anyway. I have to keep reminding myself: I’m not doing anything wrong. There’s no reason any court would take my kids away from me.

  Alex

  I’m thankful for: Mom and Dad, and Lucia, too, I guess. Our whole family and all my friends. All my toys and our video games and my comics. All my shows on TV. Recess and the days we get taco rolls for lunch in the cafeteria.

  I’m not thankful for: The brussels sprouts, the green beans, and the freaky-looking yellow stuff on my plate right now. Cooked tomatoes. Social studies and Ms. Hubacek. Mean dogs and sleeping without a night-light. All the times that Mom and Dad fight.

  Oh, wait. I’m also thankful for: The pies Missy made, that I can eat if I take one bite of this yellow stuff. The new football that Dad got me, that hurts my hands less. The dressing Mom always makes on Thanksgiving. I hope she made some today and is saving it for when we get home on Sunday.

  Natasha

  The others are already here at Geronima’s. Haley, Sara and her kids, Geronima, Oscar, and Tiffany. I walk in and smell delicious aromas that don’t necessarily smell like turkey and all the trimmings. I see that Geronima still has all her pumpkin decorations out, the same ones she had for Halloween. But she’s taken down the ghosts and more obvious jack-o’-lanterns. Oscar’s on the couch, watching the parade on TV. Tiffany and Sara’s kids chase each other in a quick circle around him. He says, “Hey, you kids,” and they stream into Tiffany’s bedroom and slam the door behind them. He waves me into the kitchen, where I find Haley doing a cooking presentation for Geronima and Sara.

  “Don’t you remember?” Haley’s saying. “You’d say, ‘Let’s have party food tonight.’ And you’d make those tiny cocktail sausages wrapped in batter.”

  “Pigs in blankets,” Geronima says.

  “Right. And you’d cut cheese into cubes and let me eat them with toothpicks. And then, when Mother got home, you’d tell her we had chicken and rice.” I’m guessing she’s talking about her childhood, back when Geronima was her nanny.

  Sara’s standing against the wall, out of the way, drinking one of Gero’s Bud Lights. I say hi to everyone and set my casserole full of dressing on the counter. I see that Haley’s already halfway into a bottle of sparkling white wine. That’s probably what’s brought on the wave of nostalgia. Meanwhile she’s commandeered Geronima’s microwave and half the butcher block with an assortment of bags, boxes, and bottles. We watch her pull a wheel of Brie from the microwave and decorate it with amaretto jam and pecan halves. Then she takes a tiny spreader and a box of expensive-looking crackers from her Earth Foods bag and uses them to complete the tableau she’s created on the butcher block. “Here,” she says, offering the spreader to Sara. “Try it.”

  “No thanks,” says Sara immediately. “What is that, cream cheese?”

  I accept a cracker topped with Brie and jam, and it tastes heavenly. “Good. This is really good, Haley.” She beams at me like a child. “What are you drinking? Prosecco?” I say.

  She says, “No, it’s a cava. Try it.” And she turns to the cabinet to get me a wineglass.
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br />   Geronima peers into the oven and says, “The brisket’s almost ready.”

  “We’re not having turkey?” I say.

  Sara catches my eye, smiles, and shakes her head.

  “I have turkey if you want it,” says Geronima. “They had turkey breasts for a dollar ninety-nine a pound, so I got two. They’re in the refrigerator. I can heat one up if you want.”

  I say, “No, brisket’s fine. It smells great.” Why not? If I can have Thanksgiving without my kids, without my mother…why not have it without turkey, too?

  Haley hands me the glass of wine. She, Sara, and I clink glasses. “In thanks for this bounty,” Haley says.

  “To Turkey Day with brisket,” Sara says.

  “To eating and drinking,” I say. “With friends.”

  Geronima clears the ever-present pots full of food from her stove, moving them to rooster-shaped trivets on the counter. Then she doubles up on pot holders—two in each hand—and opens the oven door all the way.

  “Gero, let me do that,” Sara says. She sets down her beer and takes the pot holders, bends down, and hauls up a giant roasting pan that must contain ten pounds of brisket and five pounds of golden, greasy brisket juice.

  “Thank you, m’ija. Just leave it on the stove for a while, to rest.” Geronima’s perspiring, as if from Sara’s effort. She’s the one who needs to rest. I wonder how long she’s been working in this kitchen, preparing for our visit, without a break.

  “Let’s go sit down for a little while,” I say. “I’m tired from…driving over here.” If I don’t make an excuse to sit, Geronima won’t.