It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Chick Lit

by S. E. Babin

  “Not so fast, babe. I know where your other job is. You work for that cleaning agency, Shiny Zone, in the daytime.”

  A bubble of raging heat started in Araceli’s stomach and swept up her chest to her face. “What are you saying?”

  “I got your number, baby.” He ran a lazy finger along her left shoulder, down to the elbow.

  Her elbow started fast toward his chin, but he stopped it with a quick hand.

  “Girl, I can get you fired from that job, and any job you get in this town with one little sentence in the ear of the business owner unless you come and clean my house every week for free. Plus, my mother needs a free cleaner. And my two aunts, my grandmother, and a friend. All weekly. I’ll give you their addresses when I see you. Tonight.” He grinned devilishly and swept his arm cavalierly out the door as she flew past him, fuming and tearful.

  * * *

  This was unbearable. This was unthinkable. She’d gotten so far, saved her money for so long, endured so much from her blasted cabrón of an uncle and his blasted pendejo of a son. Those guys had burned her with cigarettes once, when she cooked something they didn’t like. Which was when she started self-defense classes, promising herself never again to be so abused.

  Now she steered her rattle-trap car through a thick mist of tears, and somehow, she ended up parked on a downtown street in Santa Ana. She got out and stomped around the block to see the little storefront, the one that she dreamed of having her dress shop in. A dress shop for girls and mamas and grandmas and ladies. One where a mother might bring her daughter to find a beautiful, lacy confection for a quinceañera or a gorgeous, silk bridal gown or just a simple sun dress, or even a traditional Mexican dancing dress with yards and yards of colorful fabric in the skirt. She stood there, looking at the big window and imagining the shop bustling with customers, her happy customers. But something was wrong here. The usually dirty window was now clean. The shop was still unoccupied, but the FOR RENT sign was gone.

  She went home and cried hard. Then she couldn’t eat or sleep with the wild rage burning inside her. “Ai!” Her storefront had been rented. And some stupid cabrón had told Jacob about her legal status. Who even cared about her legal status? Who that she worked with actually knew her legal status?

  She stopped.

  That devil Quito.

  And she was the one who’d gotten him this job. But it had to be Quito. No one else knew. But why would he tell Jacob? Didn’t he hate Jacob? Or was that all an act? Were they secret friends? Nah. Quito couldn’t act to save his life. How could Quito be such a bad guy? Maybe he’d let it slip in casual conversation. Except it was her whole life he’d let slip, not just any random detail. Didn’t he get that? He was either really bad or really stupid. All the more reason not to trust anyone with her secrets and not to hang around with Quito or anyone else who might blow her cover. She’d have to double down on her efforts to keep herself safe from now on.

  Except the cat was out of the bag. Unless she moved to another state and started over. Jacob wouldn’t be able to follow her there, would he? The prospect of starting over in a different place, probably a cold place with snow, or maybe one with no Mexicans, filled her with fear and started the tears flowing all over again.

  * * *

  At Richandowe’s that night in Jacob’s office, Araceli received a list of five more addresses and phone numbers of Jacob’s relatives, and the times they needed their houses cleaned.

  She stared at Jacob. “I can’t do this. I already have two jobs. If I add all this, there will be no time for me to sleep.”

  He smirked and shrugged. “Should have thought of that when you entered this country illegally and took jobs we Americans should have.”

  “So Americans were cleaning your house before yesterday? They’re terrible cleaners.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. You lied to get this Richandowe’s job.”

  “I want to be legal.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not my fault the immigration system makes that impossible. But I can’t do this.” She pointed at his list. “Without quitting one of my regular jobs.”

  “You do, and I’ll tell the boss at your remaining job about your little status problem.”

  “But—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You even so much as call in sick at Richandowe’s and I’ll go straight to Mr. Proops with your secret. You’ll be out on your ear in five minutes. Have fun, alien.” He opened the door and pointed her out.

  “This is a seasonal job. It ends soon anyway.”

  He hissed, “Then I’ll find you ten more cleaning jobs to do with all your spare time. For free. Bye, Sweetie.” And he pushed her out the door, where she ran into Quito in the hall.

  He looked angry. “What? Jacob calls you Sweetie?”

  Araceli waved her hands in agitation and shame and walked away, brimming with tears.

  3

  The next day, Araceli started working both her jobs plus all the extra cleaning jobs Jacob had given her. She had no time for church or eating or evening telenovelas with Dulce Maria, and she never got more than three hours of sleep at a time. She started out tired, but by week three, she was dog tired, bone tired, dead tired from schlepping from place to place. She fell asleep in the sofa department during her Richandowe’s shift more than once. She missed the last few classes of her business course at the college and flunked the final. And still she worked. And worked. And worked, keeping her head down, avoiding Quito, avoiding everyone at the store.

  Socializing with traitors would not serve her.

  The only bright spot in this period was getting a cleaning job on December sixth at the home of her old ESL instructor, Alice Chalmers, an amazing woman whom Araceli had known since her immigration to California in 2003. Since then, Araceli had only seen Alice occasionally, since Alice didn’t teach the night classes Araceli took.

  On December sixth, Alice’s college-age son Jamey let Araceli into Alice’s house to clean. What a cozy home, with walls full of pictures of her family. As Araceli finished, Alice returned home from work in a flurry of bags and books and papers flying everywhere.

  Alice, amazingly still a honey blonde after all these years, paid Araceli, adding a nice tip. “Can you stay for lunch, Araceli? I’d love to catch up.”

  Tears sprang to Araceli’s eyes. Jacob had her so tightly booked. “So sorry, Ms. Chalmers. I … want to. I do. But I’m already late for my next job.” Out the door she flew, late again. Sad again.

  That night, Araceli got a sore throat, which blossomed into a cold and cough, and then a fever. She felt worse every day, but still she worked, and she barely slept. The morning of the fourteenth, she woke up and stood up, but got dizzy and fell back into bed. She picked up the phone to call in sick. Except she couldn’t. She had to clean Jacob’s house before his Christmas party that night. She put the phone down and cried.

  Jacob had won. He’d really won. She’d soon lose her jobs and have to spend her business money on rent or go back to Mexico and start over. Mexico had once been her happy home, before the drug cartels and organized crime had made it hell. They’d made it impossible for her mother to get work or medical care, and she’d died. Could Araceli go back there and establish a business there now? Could she somehow get around those macho drug sellers and their damn guns to build beauty in the form of a dress shop? Maybe she’d learn to shoot a gun to protect herself from drug cartel rape and torture. Mexican women were doing that. Or maybe she’d marry a drug kingpin and live large.

  Hah. Good one. Araceli Martinez, Señora Drug Lord.

  She put a hand to her neck, feeling for her cross pendant, which her mother had given to her.

  No cross.

  “Mierda.” Somehow, she’d lost it in all this rushing around. But where? Well, she might have missed church for weeks, and she might have lost her favorite cross, but she was still straight-as-a-rod, salt-of-the-earth Araceli—nobody’s drug moll.

  Could she ask the U.S. for asylum, saying Mexico was too da
ngerous for her to return to? She sighed. Unlikely the U.S. government would open that excuse up for millions of Mexicans to use.

  Dulce Maria came to her bedroom door. “Araceli! Oh, you poor, sick baby. I made you my special Estrellita Sopita for your throat. Here.” She sat down by Araceli on the bed and tucked a napkin into the younger woman’s shirt, a ridiculous thing that made Araceli laugh every time she did it. Then Dulce Maria spooned the wonderful rich chicken broth with pasta and eggs into Araceli’s mouth.

  “Bueno. I make you all better, right?”

  Araceli nodded. Indeed, she felt stronger, maybe strong enough to go clean that bastard Jacob’s house, after all. She hauled herself up and got dressed, then wobbled out to the car and drove to Jacob’s house.

  Jacob left her scrubbing his hall bathroom floor and ran to the store. She was scrubbing the tub when she had a terrible coughing fit. The cleaning fumes in the windowless bathroom must have triggered it. She drank handfuls of water from the tap, but the deep, rattling cough continued. Well, this had to stop. She had two more houses to clean today and a shift at Richandowe’s to work all night. She sat on the bathroom floor to get her breath, and held a hand to her head—pretty warm. Her other hand went to her throat to finger her cross.

  Still not there.

  A sharp knock at the front door startled her. All she wanted was to rest, but no sense making Jacob angry by not letting him in with armloads of groceries. She rose unsteadily and started toward it. But her legs moved so slowly down the hall, like through bubbling refried beans.

  “Coming,” she called, in a small voice. Then spots appeared before her eyes, and as the front door opened, her legs went out from under her.

  * * *

  Quito was holding her in Jacob’s foyer, having somehow caught her as she fell. “Another amazing save by Magic Turkey Man.”

  “What the feck?” He frowned. “Araceli. Why did you fall? Are you sick?” Pause. “Did you call me Turkey Man?”

  She’d said that out loud then? She blushed. “It’s ‘what the heck,’ Quito.” She wriggled out of his arms, rubbing her head, trying to stand. “I’m just—ai. Dizzy.” She quickly sat back down on the floor.

  He knelt by her. “What the feck? You look awful. You’re as white as a computer Greek.”

  “Computer ‘geek’,” she corrected. “Wow, I don’t feel so good.”

  He whipped out his phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  “No, no!” She reached for the phone and hit the red button. “This is nothing. I’m fine, really. Uh, why are you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you, and you’re avoiding me at work. I remembered your address from that paper, so I came over.”

  “But—”

  Jacob’s front door opened, and Jacob walked in, carrying two grocery bags. A big scowl formed on his face at the sight of the duo in his path. “What the hell?”

  “Why is he here?” Quito said to Araceli.

  “It’s my house,” Jacob thundered. “Did you hit her? Why’s she on the floor? Get out of here, Barzaga. Right now, or you’re fired.”

  “No, I …” Quito looked at Araceli, crushed. “You live here? With him? Is that why you’re so mean to me?”

  Araceli started coughing again as Jacob said the most awful words she’d ever heard. “Yes, she does. Beat it.”

  “Whatever.” That one word from Quito was full of devastation, so full it would have made Araceli cry, if she hadn’t been choking for air. Quito left, and the door closed.

  Jacob looked down at her. “You’re a lot of trouble. I’m gonna need some cash from you every week to keep you on. Call it a hundred bucks to start.”

  “Wha—?” Araceli felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Then all went black.

  4

  Araceli woke up coughing hard. She was in the driver’s seat of her car, parked across the street from Jacob’s house. She shivered in her thin work clothes in the cold car. Leave it to Jacob to take good care of her.

  Not.

  And steal all her time and money.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  An annoyed-looking gray-haired woman tapped at the window.

  Araceli rolled the glass down an inch.

  “Move your car. This is my parking spot,” the cranky woman complained.

  Still coughing and feeling like a hippo was perched on her chest, Araceli started the car and pointed it toward home. Only at the stop sign did she notice the yellow note taped to her steering wheel saying: “YOU MISS WORK AND I’LL TELL YOUR SECRET.”

  Mierda. Where was she supposed to work today? She really couldn’t remember. Maybe at Shiny Zone. She turned toward the agency and somehow, the Blessed Virgin got her there. She was almost at the agency’s parking lot when that paper on the steering wheel kept her from turning it correctly. She was trying to rip the damn thing off when she missed the turn and the car plowed up over a curb onto the sidewalk, stopping just feet from the building.

  People started yelling.

  “Lady, are you drunk?” came a brusque male voice at her car door, and then people were pulling on her, lifting her, poking her and asking her questions that just swam around her head like goldfish.

  Someone carried her into the Shiny Zone front office. As she sat there, dazed and aching, who should walk in the front door but Alice Chalmers. Alice approached the receptionist in her peach linen shirt and black teacher skirt.

  “Hello. I found this necklace in my guest bathroom after Araceli Martinez came to clean my house last week. Can you give it to her? Also, could you contact her and ask her to call me? I used to be her teacher. I want to talk with her.”

  The receptionist, a short, wizened Vietnamese lady, pointed over Alice’s shoulder. “Ask her yourself. She right over there.” She shook her head and muttered, “Not working here anymore. Showing up at work drunk. Plus illegal.”

  Alice turned to see Araceli looking like death on the chair. She made a face at the girl’s rattling cough.

  “Oh, dear. Can someone help this girl into my car?”

  * * *

  Araceli spent two days in the hospital with pneumonia, long enough to get onto the right antibiotics and to get well-hydrated. Dulce Maria visited Thursday, and burst into tears, howling at how badly she’d taken care of Araceli. Araceli had to comfort poor Dulce Maria, who Enrique escorted home soon after. Alice also visited, bringing flowers and candy.

  “Thanks,” croaked Araceli, who wasn’t sure she was allowed to eat chocolates. The nurses were so strict.

  On Friday, Alice came back and told Araceli about her life. “Kate’s in Paris for Christmas with some friends—freezing her ass off, I hear. Evan’s working nearby for Blizzard. He likes it. The other boys are done with their semesters, so they’re home, but the house is still like a ghost town, with all of us in our separate corners, playing video games or watching movies on laptops with headsets.” She shook her head. “Kids these days.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Araceli’s eyes fluttered.

  Alice said, “Look, I just finished giving my last final exam. Why don’t you nap a while, and I’ll sit here and grade these papers.” She put her feet up and got comfy.

  When the doctor released Araceli to go home, Alice got the discharge instructions. She turned to Araceli. “Want to come home with me for a few days?”

  Araceli, still weak as Canadian salsa, nodded.

  So Alice took Araceli home to the beige house in suburbia and put her to bed in Kate’s old room, now the study. She plumped her pillows and brought her soup—Campbell’s chicken noodle—and made her drink enough water to float a Carnival Cruise liner. She brought her medications. Then she sat down by Araceli, her little white dog hopping up there as well.

  “That’s Ellipsis, my poodle,” Alice said. “Hey. Araceli. I … worry about your health and your … driving. And are you still … illegal?”

  Araceli turned away from Alice. “I need sleep now.”

  “Okay. Let’s start over.”

  Ar
aceli said nothing, stroking the dog.

  “Girl,” Alice went on, “I don’t care if you’re illegal. I don’t even care that much if you’re driving without a license. Well, maybe a smidge.”

  Araceli’s stomach tightened. There had to be a “but” coming. With these Americans, there was always a “but” or an “except.” She imagined Lady Liberty, torch in hand, proclaiming, “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Araceli had memorized this for Citizenship class. “The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” Then Lady Liberty put her hands on her hips. “Except for the Mexicans. I don’t want them! Give me everyone else, but not the Mexicans!”

  She curled herself into a ball around the fluffy white dog.

  Alice left the room.

  Araceli napped, then woke and turned on the TV. Her favorite telenovela, La Doña, blared while she plotted her escape. She’d find Alice’s phone—Araceli couldn’t afford a cell phone—and call Enrique. He’d pick her up. Easy. Right?

  Alice tapped at the door, making Araceli jump, and entered with two women—women Araceli knew.

  First came Julie Bowers, the French teacher from Garden Beach College. Julie rushed in, her wild gold hair flying around her like a halo, and grabbed Araceli’s hands in her strong warm ones, then smothered her in a huge hug. “Oh, Araceli! You poor thing! I’m so sorry you’re sick. Long time no see, Sweetie.”

  Araceli sat very still, feeling like she was wrapped in an angel’s wings. Was it Christmas yet?

  Then in came big, tall Georgette Jones, the voice and speech teacher with the 1000-watt smile and a nova-bright aura that filled giant conference halls. She boomed, “Araceli! My God, it’s good to see you, my dear. Look at you, all grown up!” She held out her smooth, dark arms to Araceli. “Gimme some sugar!”

  Araceli couldn’t speak, enveloped in another lovely hug.