It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Chick Lit

by S. E. Babin

  Alice noticed Araceli’s bright eyes and pink cheeks. “Fine. Let me gather my stuff.”

  They’d started off down the mall toward the car when a Paco Rabanne breeze and a lot of noise churned up behind them, and Santa himself clunked up in his too-big boots to park in front of Araceli, stopping the women in their tracks. Santa’s fat tummy was askew, sagging in his belt. His long, fuzzy, red coat sleeves enveloped Quito’s hands completely.

  “Araceli!” Gasping for breath, he tried to straighten his fur-trimmed cap. “And Ms. Chalmers! How are you?”

  Araceli narrowed her eyes at white-bearded Quito. “How can you be Santa? You’re too young and small.”

  Quito looked wounded. “I’m not small! I have muscles.” He held up his arms to flex them, dropping the too-long Santa pants legs, which bagged around his ankles.

  The crowd that had gathered around them laughed hysterically.

  “Araceli. I gotta get back to work. Can I see you later?” he begged, grabbing the pants again.

  “You told everyone my secret,” she hissed.

  He puffed up taller. “I did not.”

  “Like hell.” Araceli stalked away, but Alice quickly wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Quito. “Come soon. This girl has pneumonia, and she’s lost both her jobs. She needs a friend.” She turned and sprinted after Araceli.

  Quito called back to her, “‘Pneumollia’? Is that cancer? Hey, Araceli, come back! I’m your number one Stan, Sis! Hundo P!”

  The crowd erupted in more howls as a worried Santa trucked back to his post.

  6

  After Araceli’s nap, she and Alice were having tea and Christmas sugar cookies—and ignoring the nagging green card poster. A knock sounded at Alice’s condo door. Jamey brought Quito to the dining room.

  Quito entered fast, nervously shoving his dark hair off his handsome face. “Araceli! Are you sick? You look white like toast.”

  Araceli stood up. “You mean white like a ghost, Quito. But why did you tell Jacob I’m illegal? I was trying to make extra money to start a business, and you ruined it! He … flamed … no. He fired me!”

  “Me? You’re his girlfriend. He got that information from you or your friends. Not me!”

  Araceli narrowed her eyes at him. “Why would you believe that pendejo? Are you friends with him?”

  “No. What the feck?”

  “Well, I’m not his girlfriend. I hate his nuts.”

  Alice bit her lip. “I think you mean his guts, Araceli.”

  Araceli raised her voice. “Whatever. His nuts or his guts or his butts. I hate every part of him.”

  Quito scowled. “You don’t live with him? Then why were you at his house, huh?”

  Araceli yelled the loudest she’d ever yelled in her life. “I was cleaning it for FREE so he wouldn’t tell my secret! I cleaned six houses for his family for free every week!”

  Quito “What? Plus your two jobs?”

  “You heard me.” She started coughing.

  “But that’s loco!”

  Alice got up. “How about I make us some more tea? Anyone?”

  The Latins had blazing eyes locked and hands at the ready like two gunslingers at high noon.

  “Okay, then. More tea.” Alice left.

  Quito shook his head and let his shoulders fall. “You look bad. What’s ‘pneumollia’? Are you dying?”

  “Pneumonia.” Araceli rolled her eyes. “A lung infection, and I’ll be fine when you leave.”

  Quito put a hand to his chest. “Araceli. I didn’t tell that cabrón anything. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  Araceli considered. “Are you—?”

  “Aww. Is your mother dead, Quito?” Alice said, sweeping in with a plate of fresh ginger cookies and lemon bars. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. My mother is in Havana, cooking for our family of twelve. I’m number five. ‘Quito’ is the name of a fifth child.” He sat down at the table.

  “He doesn’t know what ‘grave’ means,” Araceli told Alice.

  He shrugged. “But I know Jacob fired me the night after he saw you and me together at his house. Now do you believe me?”

  Araceli’s face softened. “Maybe. Then who told him?”

  Quito absently took a ginger cookie and wolfed it down. “I don’t know. But believe me, Araceli, I would never tell anyone something private about you because you’re so, so, so …” He stopped and stared at her like a lost puppy. “Especial.” Then he said very softly, “Me. Number one Stan, Sis. I ship you, hundo P.”

  Araceli’s starch suddenly melted away. She sat down and saw Quito in a new light. Or maybe it was just in the multi-colored glow of the large Christmas tree Alice had decorated to within an inch of its life with big lights, colorful ornaments, shiny garlands, and tinsel.

  “Alice, would you please make us some more tea?”

  Alice patted her hand. “Sure, kid. But what’s ‘hundo P’?”

  * * *

  Alice invited Quito to dinner, and he accepted, spending the whole meal watching Araceli, who kept glancing at him between bites of spaghetti and conversations with Alice’s family.

  At the end of the meal, Araceli picked up empty plates and followed Alice to the kitchen.

  “I’ll clean the dishes.” Araceli rolled up her sleeves.

  “You will not. You’re too sick to wash dishes.” Alice rolled Araceli’s sleeves back down.

  “I’m better. And I’m not paying you, so I should help.” Araceli rolled a sleeve up.

  “You want to help me?” Alice turned Araceli around and pushed her toward the dining room. “You go entertain Quito. My boys have to do homework, and I have a meeting with Georgette and Julie to prepare for. See? Poor Quito’s checking his watch. Go talk to him or take him outside for a walk.”

  “It’s cold outside,” Araceli tried.

  Alice swatted her on the butt. “You go forgive that guy right this minute. He adores you. Can’t you see it? You can. I know you can. Stop trying to fight it.”

  So Araceli and Quito went for a walk around the block, with Araceli bundled up against the sixty-degree Orange County evening air.

  They walked slowly, remarking on the Christmas decorations on all the houses.

  “So Araceli, which house is better? The one with only white lights, the one with blue lights, or the one with all the colors?”

  Araceli stopped and looked at him. “You have to ask me that? All the colors, of course! Blue feels too cold, and white lights are just boring.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Boring as feck.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  A spark passed between them at that moment, and she whipped her head around to look at him.

  “What?” he said.

  “What?” Boy are you handsome. She flushed. “I think you mean ‘Boring as heck.’”

  “Okay. Boring as heck.” He flashed that charming smile.

  She let him keep hold of her hand for the rest of the walk, which became quite long, and involved several detours before they wound up back at Alice’s house.

  * * *

  Araceli and Quito were walking up Alice’s steps with their joined hands swinging merrily when a voice came from behind them.

  “Araceli!”

  Araceli turned. “Dulce Maria!”

  Dulce Maria walked up frowning. “I thought you were sick, Araceli.”

  “I was. I am.” The coughs she’d been suppressing during their romantic walk came pouring out now.

  Dulce Maria shoved a bundle at Araceli. “Here are some tamales and your mail. I can see you’re tired of me, so I’ll go home.”

  “No, no!” Araceli said between coughs, but Quito ushered her inside for a drink.

  They found Georgette, Julie, and Alice in the dining room with the Get Araceli a Green Card poster before them.

  “Hey, you two.” Georgette winked at Julie. “Come and sit down.” She handed Araceli a mug of hot tea.

  Araceli sipped it. “Do you have
news?”

  The Three Wise Women did not throw confetti.

  Julie pushed back her golden halo of hair. “I’m afraid Shiny Zone won’t sponsor you. I reminded them what a faithful employee you had been all those years, but they wouldn’t budge. Since you used a fake ID to work for them, they’re still pretty angry.”

  “I …” Araceli sank into a chair. Quito took her hand. Ellipsis jumped up on her lap.

  Georgette spoke up. “Afraid my news isn’t any better, Hun. Yes, what Jacob did to you was extortion, which is a felony, since he threatened to expose a secret that would make you lose your livelihood.” She sighed. “The bad news is that it’s pretty much your word against his, unless we can trick one of his relatives into confessing.”

  Alice pointed at the poster. “What if we call that bullying in the workplace? Could we sue and get her a green card under this provision about being traumatized or abused?”

  A hopeful look passed among the women.

  Georgette said, “Good point.”

  Araceli felt relieved. A plan was forming. “Um. Don’t you need a lawyer to sue?”

  The women nodded.

  “Aren’t lawyers expensive?” Araceli squeaked.

  The women nodded.

  “Okay. I guess if I have to.” Araceli sighed and looked down at the pile of mail. The letter on top was very official-looking, from Los Angeles County. She quickly tore it open, then passed it to Georgette. “What’s this?”

  Georgette adjusted her reading glasses. “What? This is a bill from L.A. County for $25,000 in back taxes. Property taxes. On a house in Los Angeles.”

  “A house?” Julie peeked at the envelope. “Who is this addressed to? Anybody know an Inez Beatriz Aracely Martinez Gutierrez?”

  Araceli dropped her teacup, splattering tea all over her front and the floor. Alice ran for a towel and Quito helpfully blotted her chest with a napkin.

  Wow. Her full name. The name she hadn’t used for ages, since she’d entered this country, in fact. She hated the names Inez and Beatriz. “No! That letter must be for someone else,” she protested.

  “But your name is pretty close to this.” Georgette gave Araceli a teacher look. “Inez Beatriz Aracely Martinez Gutierrez?”

  “Well, yes.” Araceli cringed. “See, I had to hide from immigration some way. So I just put part of my name on the fake ID. And changed the spelling un poco.”

  The Three Wise Women exchanged an exasperated look.

  “What else haven’t you told us, Araceli?” Julie asked. “Do you own this house?”

  “No! I don’t know why I got this letter. I never had money to buy a house.”

  “Well, it’s in your name,” Georgette supplied. “Unless this is fake. Let me look up this address.” She did a Zillow search, and there was the house at the address, bright as day, smack in the middle of the City of Angels.

  “Oh, God. I owe Los Angeles $25,000 in taxes?” Araceli wailed.

  “Maybe,” Alice said.

  “Road trip,” someone said with a yawn. “Monday morning.”

  7

  Sunday, Quito had a day off from being Santa at the mall, so he came and stole Araceli. To take her mind off her status, money and job woes, Quito took her to Newport Beach, where they walked up and down the beach barefoot, getting their toes wet. For lunch, they ate black beans and oxtail stew at Felix’s Restaurant in Orange. Then they came back to Alice’s house to make spicy Christmas cookies and watch White Christmas on TV with Alice. Later, on the sofa, right next to the fragrant Christmas tree, Araceli fell asleep on Quito’s shoulder. They were still there, snuggled up together under an afghan on Monday morning when Alice came down the stairs and poked Araceli.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyheads.”

  Araceli shot up from the sofa. “What time is it? Where should I be?”

  “Go freshen up. Julie and I are running you up to Norwalk this morning to the L.A. County Hall of Records.”

  Araceli ripped herself from Quito’s octopus-like grasp to go change clothes.

  “I’m coming, too,” said Quito. “To feck with Santa Claus.”

  At the Hall of Records, they located the deed for the house, which indeed had Araceli’s full name on it.

  “Inez Beatriz Aracely Martinez Gutierrez. What the feck?” Quito said.

  “Yeah, what the feck?” Araceli’s voice rose. “No one in this country even knows my full name. Not even Veronica.”

  Julie said, “When was this home bought?”

  More digging brought up the last date of sale: July, 2000. Price: $145,000.

  “But I wasn’t even in this country then,” wailed Araceli.

  Quito put a comforting arm around her.

  Julie said, “Hmm. Who would have bought property and put it in your name? They had to forge your signature.”

  Araceli shrugged.

  Julie said, “Let’s get in the car and go look at this place.”

  They drove to downtown L.A. and found the sweet little house. Actually, the smallest, messiest, ugliest house on a very spiffy block. The yard and roof were a complete disgrace, and the empty house needed painting. One of the well-maintained homes next door had a FOR SALE sign listing a price of $520,000.

  Alice saw a neighbor leaving his house. “Excuse me. How long has this house been unoccupied?”

  The man rubbed his chin. “Just a few months. Last renters stayed for several years. But when they wanted to move out, they couldn’t find the owner, so they just left the key with me.”

  Araceli said, “Oh. You knew the owner?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, Rogelio something. Bought this house in 2000 as a rental, and now looks like he’s abandoned it. Rentals always bring the other house values on the block down. We neighbors’ll have to clean up the yard again to help Joe sell his house.”

  Light dawned for Araceli. “Uncle Rogelio bought this for me? True, he knew my whole name, but why did he never say he bought this for me?”

  “Surprise gift?” asked Alice.

  “No way. That big cabrón.” Araceli scowled.

  “Hmm. Tax shelter,” murmured Julie. “You owe taxes from several years. Maybe Uncle Rogelio bought this house using your money and put it in your name to keep tax collectors from coming after him. He probably planned to sell it to your cousin later, but he died too soon.”

  Back in the car, Araceli put her head back and closed her eyes. Had her uncle had any papers when he died? Where? Did he have a record of buying and renting this house? The man was such a drunk that she couldn’t imagine him keeping any sort of records.

  In the front seat, Alice whispered to Julie, “Man, that house is a wreck. What if it’s not worth selling? Wonder how much Araceli owes the bank on the mortgage? And which bank?”

  How much Araceli owes the bank? She now owed more money to more people? All her hard-earned savings would soon be gone just like that—for lawyers and taxes and houses. Not for her dream business. She spoke up. “Alice, Julie, thank you for all your help. But could you please drop me at my home in Santa Ana now?”

  They did.

  8

  Araceli spent the next few days with Dulce Maria, making hundreds of tamales and a dozen Rosca de Reyes, or Three Kings Bread, each with figs, quince, cherries, and orange peel—and a plastic Baby Jesus. While Dulce Maria hummed and chopped fruit, Araceli tried to figure out how she’d gone from being excited about starting a new business here to suddenly owing all her money to pay taxes and a mortgage on a house she couldn’t sell.

  Uncle Rogelio the Cabrón. That’s how.

  The phone rang several times, but Araceli only picked it up once—for a bank representative to ask her to refinance her mortgage. Scared, she hung up. After that, she didn’t answer it.

  Quito came by twice, to bring her Christmas cookies and watch telenovelas with her.

  On Friday, she sent the huge tax check to L.A. County and cried. She never found any papers belonging to her uncle, but she knew the banks would find her now a
nd demand their money for the house. And she was almost broke. How could she pay them? If she couldn’t find work soon, she would have to go back to Mexico. She would miss Quito so much. And California. And Alice and Julie. And Georgette calling her “Hun.” And Dulce Maria. She went to sleep crying.

  * * *

  In the morning, she woke feeling much improved, hardly coughing any more. It was Saturday, Christmas Eve. She’d made up her mind. She packed a bag with most of her clothes and put it in the closet. She’d leave bright and early the day after Christmas to go back to Mexico with her last few thousand dollars. Damn it. The bank would not get all of her money.

  While she was eating a piece of Three Kings Bread for breakfast, the phone rang. Dulce Maria and Enrique were out. Araceli ignored it.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Araceli froze. She peeked out the front window. It was Alice.

  “I know you’re in there, Araceli. Open the door!”

  She did. “Alice, I’m going to Mexico. Thanks for everything.” She tried to close the door, but Julie ran up laughing and stuck her foot in it.

  Georgette was sitting in the driver’s seat of the car at the curb. “Come on, Hun. We have something to show you.”

  Araceli climbed in the car to find Quito already there, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Road trip, Miss Awesome Socks!” he yipped.

  Georgette pointed the car north, and soon they reached the crappy little house in Los Angeles that promised to make Araceli a pauper.

  Except the little house looked very different. Its roof was repaired. Its lawn was green. New plants grew in the flower beds. The sidewalk leading to the front door had been patched, and the house itself had been painted a bright yellow.

  “What the feck?” Araceli said. “Uh, heck?”

  “Come inside, girl.” Julie led Araceli inside, where each wall had a new coat of paint and the living area had new carpet. The kitchen and bathroom tile looked freshly scrubbed. She looked out the back window.