by Lydia Millet
Plus her husband, Jem’s grandpa and also a Holocaust survivor, had offed himself in aught-6. One of those car-in-the-garage situations. Jem’s parents had told him it was a stroke at the time, he was only seven then, but later he found out the deal.
So she hitched a ride down from Carpinteria with some friends going to a concert, not to cut into her savings. For the interview she wore a preppie, baby-blue button-down shirt with flat-zero sex appeal. And a necklace with a small cross on it, to show she was wholesome. She put her fingers on the cross when she was asked a personal question, kind of suggesting it meant security, plus that she loved the baby Jesus. She also learned a bunch of quotes from the Bible. Well, three. She tried to find ones about being nice to kids, but the Bible wasn’t into that.
“Children are a gift from the Lord,” was the best quote, which she trotted out in the interview. She got it from an embroidered cushion in a thrift store, but Googled it and it was in the Bible all right. In the Psalms part. She mentioned that to Jem and it was a good thing she did, because he told her you didn’t pronounce the P.
Rookie mistake, he said.
His dad and Lora weren’t religious, Jem said, but they’d feel safe with a Christian girl around the house. Christian was short for boring. “Ergo, safe,” said Jem. Lora was pretty distracted by the baby coming out soon. Obsessively rubbing cream on her stomach to fight off stretch marks. But she seemed to like Lexie OK. All Lexie had to do was take a course in infant CPR. They’d pay. And the references were no problem, she gave them friends’ phone numbers and one number of an actual woman she used to babysit for, before she found faster ways to make money.
With Lora and Paul the act was Nice Girl, which she’d done plenty of times on camera, minus the full-frontal and grinding.
The grandma was for sure a harder nut to crack. With her she also did Nice Girl, and tried to speak correctly. Nice Girl but kind of damaged. Which she was, technically, due to the acts of Stepdad Pete. She wouldn’t pass the virgin test. No blood on the white sheets. The grandma didn’t drive much anymore, but still owned a car, which she let her use for errands. On her days off too, the lady said, she could use it, and also said to call her Aleska.
She checked with Jem: it wasn’t the one his grandpa had suicided in. Though she would’ve driven the shit out of it anyway.
Jem said she’d be his mole. She’d feed him information on his dad. Not clear what. Point was, he couldn’t stand the guy. Mumbled about wanting to force him to give more money to his mom. She’d had to downsize big-time after the divorce. Even though she got alimony and all that, they still had to leave their swank pad in the Hills for a regular house. It was from the eighties and uber-ugly, but had a decent view of the Silver Lake Reservoir, he said. But he wanted his mother to get more. Plus his dad should be punished. With extreme prejudice, he said.
The room was private, with its own bath and entrance and even a lock on the other door, the one that opened to the rest of the house. So she could keep her business going. Plus the Wi-Fi was faster than her setup back home, where she’d had to make out with the Comcast guy for an upgrade because Perv Pete was such a cheapskate. She kept that sideline to the nights though, times when she was sure she wouldn’t be interrupted. You’d lose repeat customers if you stopped what you were doing, in those scenarios.
She and Lora were putting finishing touches on the nursery, four days into her stay—Lora was rearranging a shelf of stuffed animals and Lexie was basically just watching and sometimes going, “Oh that’s so cute! The koala bear’s my favorite!”—when she looked down and saw her foot, her own foot with nothing covering it but a pink flip-flop, and the flip-flop was standing in a puddle. She thought Lora had peed herself, the baby pressing on her bladder, which Lora complained about six times a day, but only for a second.
“OMG! I’m so sorry,” said Lora. “Call Paul! Would you?”
When he pulled up in his car to get her, Lexie handed him the hospital bag, prepared weeks before, and said cheerily, “I hope it all goes great! I’ll pray on it!”
After they drove off she was home-free, just had to check in on Aleska. She fixed her a sandwich, pastrami and Swiss on toasted marble rye the way she liked it, then grabbed a diet soda from the fridge and went back to her room, where she chalked up two sessions back to back. The first was with an old geezer in Sherman Oaks who paid for a Coy Cheerleader but ended up crying over his dead wife, and the second was with a closeted lesbian in Texas. The closeted part was obvious because she was using her husband’s credit card—had barely heard of Paypal. How did these people stay so clueless?
It wouldn’t be a problem, Lexie reassured her: the name of the business was Organic Natural Cosmetics, and that was the line item that would appear on the statement. She was a professional small-business owner, she took care of business. The closeted lesbian asked for Slutty Schoolgirl, gay version, which Lexie did exactly like she did the straight version, except with a different script and extra props.
Then she messaged Jem and told him his baby half-sister was coming. Felicitations, she wrote, since he liked long words.
Break out the monster spliffs, he texted back.
She wouldn’t do him IRL any more than she would the geezer with the dead wife, mostly the zits would be the problem, plus he was hella gangly—a human spider with acne. But he was a friend, more or less. Only a friend would set you up in a gig like this. A rich kid, yeah, but he somewhat knew how shit went down. She’d promised him freebies online, but it was pretty much a joke, they’d stopped that after they met face to face. Plus she was living with his family now, or part of it. Anyway free online sex was an expanding universe. Went on and on forever. Only rubes paid for it, or people who didn’t care about money. And that wasn’t Jem anymore: he’d stopped abusing his mother’s plastic. Something about dignity, although he said it in ancient Greek. Dignitas something something. Certified nerd.
Aleska buzzed on the intercom and said there was a guest coming over. Would Lexie “be so kind as to” listen for the door and bring her on back? So she couldn’t book more sessions. Then Paul texted that Lora was “still only two centimeters dilated.” TMI. Plus why centimeters? Why was it the metric system all of a sudden, as soon as you talked about somebody’s hooha opening up to squeeze out a baby? The only time she ever heard it. You wouldn’t use it in porn, that was for sure. “Come on, baby. Shove those fourteen centimeters inside me.” Wouldn’t get far with that.
Guys liked to hear inches. Some liked a two-way feed, so she had something to go on. But it didn’t make a difference, really. You had to say eight inches minimum, even sight unseen. The dumber they were, the more inches they wanted to hear. That was a rule of thumb.
Doorbell. She put on her Nice Girl face and went to answer it.
A woman stood there, pretty and put-together but mega-sad. The sadness was all over her like sand was on the beach.
“You’re here for Aleska, right? My name’s Lexie. I’m the au pair.”
“Nina,” said the woman, and reached out to shake her hand.
For a second Lexie wanted to hold it. Weird. She never held her mother’s hand. Couldn’t remember ever holding it. Her mother’s nails were too long: she was proud of them. She got manicures every week. It was all about the nails.
“Cool. Come on back.”
“Nina? Welcome. She’s going to sell my house for me,” said Aleska, when they went into the cottage. You had to knock and go in; if she was sitting at her desk, which she usually was, Aleska didn’t get up.
“Oh, right,” said Lexie. “You love that house.”
Shit, she’d said the wrong thing. Aleska’s face looked fallen in. But she mustered a smile.
“I do,” she said softly. “That house is my baby.”
No wonder, because Paul wasn’t much to brag about. Aleska, all elegant and refined, had to be bummed about having a son who was your basic Beamer-driving asshole. He texted and played phone games at the dinner table, which OK, maybe
was normal some places, such as at her mom’s, but she saw a look of horror on Aleska’s face. Plus he made Lora wash her coochie right in front of him, with antibacterial soap, before he’d go down on her. He had to see firsthand that it was sparkling clean. That was a bonus about Lora: she talked about everything. No boundaries. Or self-respect. By Day Two she’d already told Lexie half the secrets of her sex life. Apparently not knowing they were kind of pathetic.
But she was nice. That counted for a lot.
At least, unlike Pete the Perv, Paul didn’t seem to have a weakness for teens. He’d never looked at her sideways. Although she hadn’t stress-tested him, hadn’t wandered out of her bedroom in her gauzy thong so he could get a gander at her well-kept Brazilian-plus-landing strip. She didn’t dare risk it, though she was curious if he would pass or fail. But curiosity killed the cat. Anyway she sensed his natural cutoff was somewhere around drinking age. It showed in how he didn’t ogle her. He was a lech, given Lora had half his years and probably half his IQ, but not a perv. So you could say two good things about Paul: he was rich and not a pedophile. Both were advantages he had over Pete. Go Paul!
“I think I may understand,” said Nina. “I recently had to sell a house that belonged to someone I was close to. Who died suddenly. There was a lot of emotion.”
There it was: the sadness.
Aleska gazed at her thoughtfully, nodding.
“I’ll leave you guys in peace,” said Lexie. “Oh. And Paul texted me. He said, um, she’s only two centimeters dilated?”
“Good gracious,” said Aleska crabbily. “Why people think we need to know these details. It really is beyond me. You can spare me the 3-4-5 updates, dear. I only wish my son would spare you.”
Lexie fixed a club soda with lime for Nina and left the cottage just as Jem texted he was out front. His new tactic with the dad was Nice Guy, which Paul was too thick to see for the act it was. So for the birth of his half-sister he was bringing over a gift. He’d leave it. Wouldn’t hang around. It was a giant purple teddy bear with crazy eyes. He’d won it, he said, in a shooting game at the Santa Monica Pier. High as a kite.
“I even bought a card,” he said, and showed her the envelope, which had For My Baby Sister written on it in a flowing script. He’d drawn hearts and flowers around the words. They were obviously ironic, but Paul wouldn’t look and Lora wouldn’t suspect.
His mom, he’d said, was wrecked by the whole baby thing. She’d wanted another kid after Jem, kind of wanted to have a boy and a girl, but Paul had said no. One was more than enough, he said. Then he went and knocked up Lora on the side, and meanwhile Jem’s mom was too old now, her eggs all dried up like they got.
She showed him her room, which he hadn’t seen before. “Not bad,” he said curtly. “Beats mine hands-down. Thing’s the size of a closet. And not a walk-in, either. You’re high on the hog here, Lexie.”
“Only because of you,” she said.
Home was a pit. The apartment always smells like stepdad B.O. and old beer. One thousand spilled PBRs must have soaked into the shag. and her mother went crazy with the Febreze. That was the third smell: B.O., stale beer and Febreze.
“Yeah, no worries.”
“You and Aleska getting along?”
He picked up a vase from a shelf. Not hers, of course. Square, glass and modern-looking. It came with the room. Some twigs were sitting in it. On purpose. Around the house there were a bunch of vases with nothing in them but bare sticks.
“I think so. I can’t tell if she likes me, but she’s cool. I make her favorite sandwiches for lunch, with pickles on the side. And I pour her drinks stiff.”
Jem nodded jerkily. Awkward fucking guy. He put the vase back carefully. For a second she’d thought he might drop it. What stepbro Ely would’ve done—he lived to smash up shit. Whenever something looked breakable, Ely wanted to break it.
“The way she likes ’em,” he said.
“Two measures,” said Lexie.
Jem had his hands shoved down in his pants pockets and was avoiding her eyes. Embarrassing, them standing like this. Next to her bed.
“You want to go back and say hi?” she asked. “There’s a real-estate agent here. To talk about selling her house.”
He shrugged.
“In a while.”
“OK.”
Was she supposed to offer him sex? Was there a bill coming due? Maybe she’d assumed wrong. She’d never had actual sex in trade for favors. The Comcast guy, that was just face. And tits. Pete didn’t count.
But nothing was free. And every guy wanted it.
Small panic. She’d do it. If it meant staying here.
“Hey. Jem. Is there . . . do you need anything? From me?”
Smooth, Lexie. Smooth.
He turned to the window, looked out at the neighbor’s hedge. There was a hummingbird feeder in a gap and as they watched a bird hovered, dipped its tiny beak. Flew away.
“Nah, I’m good. Let’s take the home tour,” he said.
Relief.
She never went into the master except at Lora’s invitation, but Jem led the way. The bed was made—a big gold thing, four-poster and angular—and the room was neat. The housekeeper’s work, since Lora tended to drop her clothes wherever she changed and leave them lying there. Dolores went around picking up after her. One wall was sliding doors to a private patio, and opposite the bed their massive TV was sunk into the wall.
“Dad’s stuff,” said Jem, and opened some drawers in a nightstand. “He always takes this side. Score! The blue pills.”
He raised a Viagra box.
“But every guy his age pops these,” said Jem. “Not blackmail material.” He tossed the package back in and kept rummaging. Pulled out a set of handcuffs.
“Better,” said Lexie. “Right?”
She felt kind of nervous, but then: only two centimeters.
Still, she sneaked a glance over her shoulder.
“Who wears them, him or her?”
“Him, for sure,” she said. “It’s his idea and he wears them. If it was her—too obvious.”
“True dat, the girl’s already cuffed and stuffed,” said Jem. “In jail for life, baby mama.”
“What’s this?” he asked, holding up a small chain.
“Nipple clamps,” said Lexie.
“You’re an old hand.” He put them back and picked up a leather billfold now, thin and worn. Flipped it open.
“No cash,” he said. Then pulled something out of one of the folds: a photo. She leaned in to see. A toddler boy holding a red alphabet block with the letter J.
“It’s you,” she said.
Jem stared at it.
“He keeps a picture of me with the sex props,” he said. “That’s twisted.”
“Or maybe he just looks at it sometimes.”
“No way. This photo hasn’t seen the light of day for years. He forgot it’s in here. Guaranteed.”
He shoved the picture in his pants pocket and tossed the wallet back in the drawer.
“Should you—”
“He’ll never know it’s gone. Let’s book.”
Text from Aleska. Could Lexie bring back white wine from the wine refrigerator? Choose an expensive bottle, she wrote.
“Gotta get some wine for your grandmother.”
“She doesn’t drink wine. Hard liquor only,” said Jem.
“It’s probably for the real-estate lady? Right?”
“Same one that sold our house, I bet,” said Jem. “Heard my moms on the phone. Recommending.”
One bottle still had a price tag on it, eighty bucks. She figured that should qualify and headed for the back-door sliders. Jem lingered behind.
“You don’t want to come back?”
“Later,” he mumbled, and threw himself down on the couch. Closed his eyes.
In the cottage Nina was settled in an armchair. Aleska had moved into another one—rare that she left her desk.
“Could you pour a glass for Nina, dear?” she asked
.
She couldn’t pretend she didn’t know her way around a corkscrew. Pete was a beer-and-whiskey man, but her mother drank two-buck Chuck. She weighed maybe a hundred pounds and lived off Dr Pepper and curly fries. Usually too wasted by the first bottle to open the second. Lexie’d been uncorking them at the ripe old age of twelve. A preteen sommelier. Pervy Pete called her that. But now her mom drank screw-top or box. She and Pete would fall asleep on the ancient recliner, Mom on Peter’s lap, half their clothes off. Mom, stretch marks. Pete, hairy ass and thighs. Snoring.
Q: Did the widdle girl miss her mommy?
A: Not really.
Blackmail material, Jem’d said. Did he mean it? Probably running his mouth. He was pissed, but come on. He might be smart and have half a clue, but like all rich kids, when push came to shove he didn’t know how good he had it.
It was like: Don’t rock the boat, man. Don’t screw me over.
C-section, texted Paul.
“C-section,” read Lexie, and handed Nina her wine.
“Of course,” said Aleska. “They’re always in a rush. Just cut her open. Like Caligula. Fix me a drink too, will you, Lexie? The hour is upon us, thank God.”
“Sure,” said Lexie, and reached for the Hendrick’s.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Um, no,” she said, surprised, pouring.
“You dropped out of high school, is that correct?”
“Yeah,” said Lexie. “I didn’t like going there. I did a GED instead.”
“I’m taking an informal poll. You see that poster there? Above my desk?”
You couldn’t miss it. Thing had a big-ass swastika. German words about triumph. Lexie nodded.
“What did that illustrate, do you think?”
“Like . . . a Nazi rally?”
“And that one. Who’s in that picture over there?” Aleska pointed. Her hand shook as she lowered it again, the fingers slender and bony. One graceful silver ring. Or maybe platinum. Sparkling with small jewels.