by Tina Martin
“What kind of dressing is that?” I inquire.
“It’s Catalina, Sir.”
“I prefer blue cheese dressing with my salad. You should know that by now. How long have you been working here?”
“’Bout a year, Sir, and I know you like blue cheese gressing but Cherry said the tanginess of the Catalina gressing would go better with this particular meal. Said the blue cheese would overpower the taste of the mozzarella chicken.”
“I see,” I tell her, feeling my face tighten with frustration. “Would you like some wine with your meal, Sir?”
“Why don’t you ask Cherry? You ask her everything else you want to know about me, don’t you?”
“No, Sir, I just follow the menu—”
“Just go,” I tell her, fanning her away. “And bring me some blue cheese dressing!”
Cherish steps into the room immediately after I send Naomi away. She’s frowning. Has her purse on her left shoulder. Keys in her right hand.
“Why are you yelling at her like that?” she asks me, coming to Naomi’s defense.
I look at her, trying to understand how she has the balls to ask me anything. “Don’t concern yourself with something that has nothing to do with you.”
She glares.
“Come in and sit down,” I tell her.
Her glare ripens. Jaw clenches. She doesn’t like my tone and I couldn’t care less.
She goes for the seat on the opposite end of the twenty-seater table, trying to get as far away from me a possible until I say, “No. Here,” and slap the table in front of the seat where I want her to sit – adjacent to me.
She sighs, mumbles something under her breath and walks over. Sits next to me. She places her purse on the floor. Her keys on the table.
“What is this about? I’m ready to go home.”
I look at her. She has a flowery scarf tied on her head – over a full head of loose swinging braids that fall to her breasts.
I ask, “What have you eaten today?” I know for a fact she skips meals. I’ve seen her working during the time most people take their lunch breaks.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Correct,” she says. “Nothing.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too busy working to eat.”
I shrug. “You could still eat.”
“I could if I wanted to,” she answers.
She doesn’t look at me. Just answers my questions with attitude.
Naomi bounces back in the room with another fancy container and says, “Here you go, Sir. Blue cheese gressing.” She places it on the table.
“Bring an extra plate and some silverware,” I tell her.
“Why does she need to bring an extra plate and more silverware?” Cherish asks.
“So you can eat,” I tell her.
“I’m not eating.”
“You are eating. I think it’ll be nice if you had some of what you plan for me to eat, don’t you think?”
“Is that what this is about? You’re pissed because I plan your meals?”
“Who said anything about being upset?”
“I can hear it in your tone, or does being a jerk come naturally to you?”
I laugh, although I’m more shocked than amused. Flower girl has a chip on her shoulder and she doesn’t hide her dislike of me like other people do. Gotta hand it to her for being real. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know who she’s messing with.
“Here you go, Ms. Cherry,” Naomi says.
“Thank you, Naomi,” Cherish tells her and when Naomi leaves the room, she tells me, “See, that’s what you say when someone does something nice for you. You say thank you.”
Ignoring her, I serve her food, adding some chicken, salad and a roll to her plate. Then I serve myself.
“Practice what you preach,” I tell her. “I just served you food. You didn’t say thank you.”
“That’s because I don’t talk to demons.”
I laugh again. “You’re funny.”
“Funny, but oh-so-serious.”
“Eat,” I tell her.
She sighs. She’s irritated. She pecks at the salad first, then tries the chicken.
“Let me ask you something, Cherish Stevens. How long have you worked for me?”
“Two years.”
“Two years?”
“Yes. Two years. Dos años.”
“Two years and I’ve never had a conversation with you,” I say looking at her lips but I quickly glance away.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Why’s that? You don’t talk to the help. Actually, you don’t talk to anymore. And before you try to refute it, barking orders and yelling at people doesn’t qualify as conversation.”
“That’s what I do, huh?”
“On a daily basis. Yes. You just yelled at Naomi.”
“I didn’t yell at her.”
“You did—over some dressing…”
I pour myself wine, offer her some but she declines. “You do know I have the power to fire you, don’t you?”
“I’m aware of that, but you’d also have to hire ten people to replace me.”
“You think you do that much work?”
“I do. I get up at 3:00 a.m. every morning to make sure I have enough time to get here by four. I make sure the menu is in order. I go down the list of everything that needs to be done for the day, all based around your schedule. You take a shower every morning around five on the dot so I try to be in and out of your room before your shower is done. I make the bed—change your sheets and pillowcases every morning. I put away your slippers, clean off your nightstand—I make sure everything is in place in your room. Then I go to your closet, pick out your suit, sock, shoes, necktie and cufflinks. Once I’m done with that, I tidy up your office, especially when I know you’ll be working from home. I take your clothes to the cleaners, I do all the shopping, mostly for food. I schedule landscaping visits. Schedule the window washers. I call the plumbers if any repairs need to be made. I make sure your black coffee is ready in the morning. And when it’s blooming season, I make sure to cut fresh flowers and put them in vases around the house because it’s otherwise gloomy and dull around here. No one hardly ever smiles. Everybody’s on edge. The only time I see you smile is when you know you’ve pissed somebody off. And yes, I make Naomi a menu every week because I don’t like it when you yell at people who are trying to serve you and you’ve yelled at her one-too-many times. We’re not robots, Mr. St. Claire. We’re people who have feelings. You, on the other hand, have lost touch with that side of yourself.”
She eats – eats more than she did before she went on her rant.
“Are you done?” I ask with a level of nonchalance that even I am surprised by.
“No, I’m not done. Fourteen hours a day. That’s how much time I devote to this job. Not to you. The job. Fourteen hours. If you appreciated what I did, it would be for you, but it’s not for you, Mr. St. Claire. I work for Hawthorne Innovations, Incorporated, hired by your mother.”
She drops her fork on her plate.
“Now, are you done?”
She sighs heavily. “Yes. I’m done.”
“Good. I could replace you in a heartbeat.”
She stands and says, “Thank you for dinner.”
“I didn’t ask you to leave.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says. “I’m not going to sit here while you insult me to my face. I go to bed every night at eight o’clock so I can get up at three o’clock in the morning to serve you, Sir, and you don’t appreciate nothing.”
She snatches her keys from the table, takes her purse from the floor and leaves the room.
And I thought I was a work-a-holic…
She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she does the work of ten people. I’d be a fool to fire her. I know her value and what she brings to work every day. She gives her all and she could never be replaced. I can’t show my hand and tell her that. As it stands, she has
a mouth on her to match those pretty lips of hers.
I shake my head.
Something about her thrills me. It could be her pretty face, her decadent chocolate skin or those exotic braids on her head. Most likely, it’s the fact that she’s not afraid to speak her mind around me. Most people wouldn’t come at me the way she does.
I like it.
I know I have the power to shut her down whenever I want, but she doesn’t look like the type to back down. At least I don’t think she is.
I should probably keep with the same protocol I’ve followed for the two years she’s worked here.
Ignore her.
Avoid her.
Pretend she doesn’t exist.
She can’t handle a man like me, and I have no interest in getting into arguments with a smart-mouthed woman. But why do I have a sudden craving for cherries?
Chapter Five
Cherish
My days are shorter than Montgomery’s temper. Clarification: my workdays are long, but my days – my personal time – are short. Usually, I’d grab something to eat on the way home because getting off work at six and going to bed at eight doesn’t give me a sufficient window of opportunity to cook a decent meal. So it’s snacks, burgers and to-go stuff for me during the week. I drink plenty of water, spend a little time with my flowers and watch thirty minutes of TV. After that, I take a shower and then I’m in bed.
What a life, right?
In some twisted roundabout way, I think it keeps me sane. Staying busy is a way to occupy my mind with what’s right in front of me instead of focusing on problems that try to catch up to me. Overworking helps me cope with the death of my father all those years ago and my aunt – both whom I loved dearly.
Today, something or shall I say, someone, disturbed my inner peace. For two years I dreamed of getting attention from Montgomery and today, I got it. Got it and didn’t want it. They say be careful what you wish for. Whoever they are ain’t never lied! I hope I never run into him again.
I take a bag of pretzels from my kitchen table that looks more like a pantry instead of an eating place. I pour myself a glass of lemonade and then sit on the porch and stare out into the yard. I’m stressed but I’m still able to smile. This old-fashioned, two-bedroom house is my sanctuary. My home. The place that saved me after I ran away from my real home – from my mother and stepfather – at the tender age of sixteen.
My phone rings.
I take a glance at it to see that it’s her calling. My mother. I haven’t talked to her in a while. There’s not much to say these days. Our relationship hasn’t been the same since my biological father passed. Over the years, we talked sporadically. I may even run into her while she’s out shopping at times, but the mother-daughter bond we used to have – yeah, that no longer exists and I doubt it ever will.
When the phone stops ringing, I toss a pretzel into my mouth. The ringing starts again but it’s not my mother this time. It’s Naomi. I wonder what Montgomery has done now?
Naomi usually leaves at seven after Montgomery is completely finished dinner. She discards the leftovers (because Montgomery is too good to eat leftover food) and then her day is done. If he wants late-night snacks, he’s on his own.
“Hey, Naomi,” I answer.
“Chile, have you done completely lost your mind?”
A slight sense of urgency elevates my heart rate. “What’s wrong, Naomi?”
“I heard what you were telling Mr. St. Claire.”
“At dinner?”
“Yes. At dinner.”
“He was being disrespectful. He yelled at you—asked you to bring some salad dressing and when you brought it to him, he didn’t say thank you. That’s rude. Then he demanded you bring me a plate. Who does he think he is?”
“He’s the man who signs our paychecks, honey.”
I sigh. “I don’t care. I don’t like how he treats people, and I had enough. I had to call him out on it. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Chile, looka here…lemme tell you something, Cherry—I don’t care what that man says as long as, at the end of the week, I get my paycheck.”
“But there’s a certain way you’re supposed to talk to people,” I tell her, angrily crunching on pretzels.
“Yes, honey, but you and I both know that man’s a few peas short of a casserole.” She chuckles, makes me laugh.
“Good one, Naomi.”
“It’s true. I’ve been doing some talking to his momma. From what I hear, he ain’t been the same since his daddy passed.”
That hits too close to home. It’s a familiarity we both share. I lost my father, too. I know how it feels, even though I was a child at the time. He was an adult when his father died. I don’t know which one is worse. I imagine the pain is the same in both instances, or maybe there is a difference.
As a child, I have a few memories of my dad that are pretty vivid. I have pictures. I’ve had time to get over his death.
Montgomery was in his early thirties when he lost his father. He had more years with his dad than I had with mine, and no doubt more pain is associated with the loss, I would imagine. But, if that’s the case, why does Major seem so carefree and unbothered by everything while Montgomery is supposedly going through it?
Naomi continues, “Believe me when I say Sylvia Hawthorne knows that boy done lost his mind. Why do you think she stays good and tucked in on the east side of the house? She don’t bother nobody and hardly talks to anybody. She keeps to herself and them boys keep to theyself. I ain’t never seen anything like it.”
“Me either. To be so wealthy, they’re miserable.”
“Mmm…hmm,” Naomi says in a gossipy hum. “That goes to show they ain’t wealthy where it matters the most. You catch my drift?”
“Yep,” I say, then toss another pretzel into my mouth.
“Honey, what’s that you crunching on in my ear? Cracklin’s?”
“No,” I say laughing. “I’m eating pretzels. Oh, and that chicken was delicious, by the way. Montgomery made me eat some. I didn’t want to, but once I started eating, I couldn’t stop.”
“Why did he request you eat with him? He usually eats all by his lonely…”
I shrug as if she can see me then answer, “I don’t know. He was bothering me earlier, asking about the menu and stuff. I honestly thought he was going to fire me today.”
“He ain’t fixin’ to fire nobody.”
“He will, Naomi. I’ve seen him do it. He fired the cook that was here before you because she overcooked his steak. He fired the two maids that were here before Minnie and Isidora. I still, to this day, don’t know why he did that. So, just make sure you watch your back.”
“I will, babygirl, but you make sure you watch yours, too. He was pretty PO’d when you left.”
“Yeah, probably because he couldn’t torture me any longer.”
“Don’t know, but something interrupted his spirit. I tell you that much. After you left, he got up from the table in a rage. Next thing I know, I hear dishes hitting the floor. I run to see what’s wrong, and you know me—I don’t usually run for nothing. By the time I got to the dining room, I’m gasping for air ‘cause I’m out of breath and all the food – his plate and your plate is on the floor, smashed. The salad, the chicken – sauce was everywhere. It was a mess.”
“Wow,” I say. That confirms it. He’s mentally unstable.
“Needless to say I had to clean it all up. Minnie and Isidora were still there, so they helped me. So, I’ma say it again—be careful around that man. You never know when he’s gonna snap.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Naomi, but thanks for the warning.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Bye,” I answer, then hang up. Suddenly I’m not looking forward to going to work tomorrow. I’m seriously considering calling in sick.
Chapter Six
Monty
When I was fifteen, my father had the talk with me and my brother
. I think fifteen is a little too late to be having that kind of talk, but at least he tried. He was playing catch up. He was always busy working. Always behind on our school activities or anything else that involved us, but he knew the ins and outs of Hawthorne Innovations. Mother was more up to speed with us – our sports, our likes and dislikes – but I imagine she deemed it appropriate he have the birds and bees talk – something I really didn’t need. I’d learned mostly everything I needed to know by then. Learned from my friends at school. From shows I wasn’t supposed to be watching on cable. Learned where this and that goes. How to protect myself. How to kiss. I learned it all.
They had nothing to worry about with me and girls. Yeah, the chicks were at me. Why wouldn’t they be? Mother always used to tell me and Major we would break hearts because of our eyes if for no other reason. Girls couldn’t resist my green eyes. But I could resist them, and I did. I had no high school girlfriend. Girls had crushes on me, but I didn’t sweat anyone. Didn’t matter how pretty she was or if her body was bangin’. There was no woman in college that made me lose my mind and think about foolish things like rings and marriage. That was more of Major’s speed. All my interests were wrapped up in Hawthorne Innovations.
I wanted to know everything my father knew about inventions and coming up with creative ways to do everyday things. Once he saw how serious I was about learning the trade, he taught me everything he knew. Showed me the ropes. Taught me how to come up with my own ideas from concept to product. I fell in love with it. With working and designing. I’ve stayed in love with it.
For years, nothing has come before my work. No woman. No other career aspirations or personal hobbies. Just work. It’s like a drug that keeps me high and happy at the same time. There’s no greater feeling than the euphoria I feel when I’m in my zone, doing what I love. When I feel like I’m coming off of my high, I scribble new plans to reignite my passion until my high returns.
But there’s a downside to being this dedicated to working. It’s becoming my demise. It’s all I can think about. When making money happens so effortlessly, it becomes something I can never get enough of. I’ve made myself a prisoner. Given myself a life sentence. I’m a slave, but I’m set for life. I don’t want for nothing. So, why am I lying on a twenty-thousand-dollar bed staring up at the ceiling because I can’t sleep?