Chore Whore (6 page)

She hangs up.

Nineteen-hundred-dollar doors installed not two days before by the same crew working there every day, and one of the guys walks off with them. I'd fire the whole crew. Not Esther, though. She makes up excuses for them. I'm stumped. I suspect this is part of her guru's training exercises where she must try to forgive all and accept that people can't truly be bad to the bone.

Call number two is from Shelly: my friend, Star's mom and Esther's housekeeper. “Corki, I'm not sure if you heard, but Esther's having another one of her dinner parties at the house. Only fifty people this time, but Al Gore's supposed to come as well as some dude who wrote a controversial book on the Amazon rainforest. Also, guess what? Some brother, and I use that word loosely, was caught selling crack, of all things, a half block from the kids' school. I told Esther and she's really pissed off that the kids can't even go to school without being pursued like future customers. Anyway, we'll discuss it when I get there to pick up the kids. I'll be there about four-thirty. Peace.”

Crack? Some knucklehead was selling crack near the kids' playground? In an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood surrounded by million-dollar homes and a few nice apartment complexes, someone's doing that? I remember the bucolic farm town nestled in the heart of California's San Joaquin Valley where I was raised. I wonder if it's true that you can't go home again.

Call number three is from Daisy Colette. “Corki, I just wanted to thank you for all the work you've done and I'm sorry about having to let you go. Call Gary. He should have a severance check waiting for you. It's not much but I hope it'll help. Bye.”

Call number four.

“Hi, it's Veronique.”

Veronique LeMay was the sex symbol of the 1990s. Besides being blessed with an I.Q. of 161, she is tall and perfectly proportioned, with an illustrious shock of chestnut brown hair. From certain angles she resembles Judy Garland, with huge and seductive brown eyes so dark they seem to house a well of inaccessible pain. Born on the same day, decades later, Veronique seems at times to be Judy's identical twin.

Whether in corduroys, cashmere or Calvin Klein, Veronique attracts unwanted male attention. Men find themselves behaving poorly upon setting eyes on her. She has been followed home, flashed and sworn at for pretending not to notice. She has perfected the art of being a female movie star.

“Corki, I want to talk with you. I've just returned from Italy, doing the film role of a lifetime. I really think it's going to take my career to new heights. In fact, my agents are predicting I just might become the flavor of the week once again. God, that would be nice! Besides wanting to catch up with you, I'm going to need your help on a little project. Love you. Call me so we can arrange a get-together.”

The last call is from Lucy Bennett. Lucy giggles with giddiness. “Hey, it's Lucy. Sweetheart, I know I'm going to see you tonight, but I also want to see you tomorrow, in private. How about four o'clock—no, five—no! Four would be better. Shit, you know I struggle with decisions. Meet me at the Four Seasons on Doheny. We'll have tea . . . or maybe at Paddington's, oh shit, there I go again. Four Seasons. Four o'clock. Just call me and confirm. Bye, honey!”

I listen to Lucy's message again. I've never heard this particular affectation before. Usually Lucy's clothes or her musical tastes or the type of car she drives changes. This time, however, Lucy's speech has taken on a small, almost imperceptible Southern cadence. I wonder who he is . . . her new man.

I sit back and breathe deeply for the first time today. As the messages conclude, the news of the day converges in my mind. First Daisy, then Jock. I think about homeless shelters, bus benches and drained bank accounts.

I go to the bathroom and throw up.

Shelly comes up
the front walkway to my apartment in her military camouflage pants and olive green cashmere sweater. Her waist-length dreadlocks are swept into an elegant chignon, pinned up with a set of knitting needles.

When Shelly's career as a recording-studio mixer started to interfere with her ability to be there to tuck in her daughter at night, she quit and took on a less fulfilling job—cleaning houses. At first, her ego was so bruised she couldn't even talk about her change of employment. But after a few months of watching her daughter, Star, develop a new sense of security and assurance, Shelly was at peace with her decision. On the rare days she has to work late, I pick up Star and her cousin, Eden.

While Shelly eventually adjusted to the fact that she was working as a housekeeper, Esther, her boss, did not. She hired Shelly partially because she didn't want to be accused of not hiring a black woman. For the first couple of months, Esther called me complaining that she felt guilty for hiring a black woman to clean her house, of all things—too many historical implications, what with slavery and all. “Too much ‘white liberal guilt,' ” I told her.

I liked to taunt Esther and ask her whether she would rather pay a hardworking American black woman, historical implications and all, $750 per week to clean or a Latina woman who didn't speak the same language and would be sending her money home to Mexico. Esther could never stomach answering the question. She tried to mask her guilt by complaining that since Shelly was a fellow follower of Gurumayi, it was too much like having your own sister scrub your toilet.

Shelly climbs my front steps with vigor. After a full day of cleaning a six-thousand-square-foot home, I wouldn't be able to muster a smile. Shelly looks up at me standing in the doorway.

“Hey, mama!”

“Hey, Shell. You sure you worked a full day? You have a little too much spring in that step.”

She walks through the door, brushes past me and flops down on the Shabby Chic lounge chair I inherited from Lucy when she last changed her style. Shelly smells like a mixture of sandalwood and 409. She takes off her black-rimmed glasses and shoves them into her bag.

“I'm telling you, Corki, it's clean living. Herbs, vitamins and an organic, vegetarian diet. No meat, no dairy.”

The kids come in from Blaise's room.

“You kids almost ready to go? Mama Corki has to get a move on and go cook a dinner for the stars!” Shelly prods as she gathers their backpacks and shoes together. “Real quick, Corki, you hear the latest?”

“About the doors? Yeah, Esther left me a message.”

“Oh, not that!” Shelly states. “I'm talking about the little surprise she brought home.”

“No. What was it?”

“A bronze statue of Lord Ganesh. A three-thousand-dollar, sixteen-hundred-pound Lord Ganesh for the front patio.”

The teakettle whistles a shrill reminder that it's ready. “I'm sorry, girl, but I threw up a minute ago. I need some ginger tea.” I start to get up.

“You stay right there. Let me do it,” Shelly says as she gets up and goes to the kitchen. “Is that why you look so pale?”

The sounds of cupboards opening and closing, tea mugs clinking and the click of the stove's fire being turned off unexpectedly moves me. I hadn't realized how much I miss being cared for. Forty hours a week I mother my clients, and the rest of the time I mother Blaise. I haven't been taken care of in a long time.

“Corki?” she calls from the kitchen, “I'm putting your tea in a travel mug so you can take it with you. That okay?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

“So anyway,” she continues, “I bet I'm going to be spending an hour a day bathing this statue because he's the Hindu god that requires constant attention. A special-needs god is what I call him.”

“At least you have a job,” I state flatly.

“Amen to that. Thank God we both do!”

“Did,” I correct.

“Oh no, what happened?” Shelly inquires.

I tell her the Reader's Digest version with a little gore to enhance the story.

“Doesn't Jock give you some type of retainer or something to tide you over while he's gone?”

“Are you joking? It would be nice if he would at least give me a bit of notice so I could try to get another client while he's gone.”

“Really!” she says indignantly.

“What am I gonna do?” I ask.

“You'll find a way,” Shelly says.

“How much you think prostitutes make?” I ponder.

“Now, there's a viable option! Come on, woman, get up and let's get you on your way.”

She pulls me up out of the chair and helps me gather all the food and cooking utensils I'll need to use tonight. We herd the kids out the front door. At the curb, I kiss Blaise goodbye.

“Honey, I'll pick you up as soon as I finish work, okay?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Shelly, by the way, is it possible you could watch Blaise tomorrow afternoon? I'm sorry to have to ask you but I'm supposed to meet a client at four.”

“Believe it or not, I'll have the afternoon off. If you want I can watch him from noon on.”

“Bless you! That would be great. It's such an inconvenience that they start winter break in the middle of the week. What kind of school district makes decisions like that?” I ask.

We get the kids in the backseat, buckle them in, and I slop them all with “mama” kisses until they cringe. I go around to the front seat and hug Shelly goodbye. She hugs me back.

“You get my message about the crack dealer?” she whispers in my ear.

I nod my head.

“I told Esther and she was properly horrified. Sent her right into rescue mode. She started ranting and raving saying that all our kids should go to Atom's school, where they'd be safe from that kind of thing. Of course, I pointed out that none of us have eighteen thousand dollars a year to spend on private school.”

“Yeah, hello!”

“So she got on the horn with some bigwig at Envision Prep and told him that they don't have enough ‘color' there and if she wanted her son, Atom Chase-Schwartz, to think that only blond-haired, blue-eyed kids deserve a good education, she would have had him schooled in Germany! She asked them just what they planned on doing about it. But before he could answer she interjected her own solution. They should admit three ‘African-American' kids and she happens to have the perfect candidates.”

“Oh no, let me guess. Might they be named Eden, Star and Blaise?”

“Oh, you're a smart one! You're definitely gonna find your way!”

Lucy's dinner party
is a success. Most of the food on my menu is considered “legal” by Atkins, Zone and South Beach: salmon and lobster with a sautéed tangerine reduction, a leek gratin with goat cheese and prosciutto, a grated raw zucchini salad with fresh mint, and edamame beans with olive oil, scallions and cilantro. Since Ben Harper is the only one who wholeheartedly indulges in dessert, my favorite course, I spoil him. Dessert is moist chocolate cake topped with espresso mocha frosting accompanied by homemade violet ice cream.

I try to spend as much time in the kitchen as I can. I don't want to look into Lucy's dining room and see John wiping tangerine juice off his chin or Meg with lobster stuck in her teeth. Or even worse, I don't want to see someone politely saying “No thank you” to a dish that I slaved over.

As the dinner chatter gets louder, I start to feel the tension in my neck. An acute muscle spasm is starting above my shoulder blades. I rub and squeeze my neck and the pain seems to only worsen. Alejandra, Lucy's housekeeper, a tiny, beautiful woman who was a television reporter in Guatemala, plays waitress tonight in the dinner drama. She brushes past me in the kitchen as she takes drinks out to the party.

I hear Courteney laughing generously in the other room, followed by a hearty chuckle of Melissa's. What was Lucy possibly thinking, asking me to cook for movie stars who have dined in the finest restaurants in the world? I can't concentrate with all the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

I grab a red plastic cup and make a dash down to the small, personal-size wine cellar in the basement.

Lucy doesn't drink wine or spirits. Every bottle in here was a gift. I move the bottles around and all are unopened. I finally find a bottle of cognac that is open. It was a gift from Kevin Kline. I hope he doesn't mind.

Remy Martin Louis XIII.

I pour a full cup, take a gulp and pour some more. I trot carefully up the stairs, and before I hit the last step, I feel a comforting warmth spread through my stomach. I know this would be a no-no on Dr. Trabulus's list of ways to feel better after throwing up, but . . . I sip some more cognac and am ready to finish cooking.

Dinner slips by in a bit of a blur. As they eat, I stand behind the dining room door, unseen, watching the guests through a crack. Seeing John smile lovingly at Kelly, Courteney laugh at David's jokes and Laura rub Ben's back makes me suddenly melancholy. I take another generous drink of the Rémy Martin.

It's almost Christmas, I'm tired and alone, quickly on my way to becoming tipsy, and I still have to pick up Blaise. I tiptoe to the sink and dump the rest of the cognac down the drain.

At ten
P.M
. I finish washing my pots, pans and dishes and start hauling them back to my truck. After being on the go for eighteen hours, I'm ready to go home and climb into bed. Alejandra helps me. I wrap up the remaining cake for her to take home.

“Before you leave, Corki, Lucy wants me to show you some stuff she'll need for tomorrow night.”

Alejandra and I quietly make our way past the dwindling party and into the guest bedroom. When she turns on the light, I am assaulted with the vision of a mountain of shopping bags. There are twenty-six visible—more hidden behind the bed. Each one contains a number of gifts with nametags. This is the trouble with actors who are out of work during Christmas—they like to shop. There must be 150 to 200 gifts that will need to be wrapped in twenty-four hours—not possible.

“She wants to have them for her road trip,” Alejandra says apologetically.

“What road trip is this?” I ask, appalled by the sight.

She raises her shoulders. “I don't know. All Lucy said was that she was going away for Christmas.”

“This is the first I've heard,” I say with exasperation. “I'm sorry to ask you this, Alejandra, 'cause I know you're as tired as I am, but will you help me load this into my truck?”

“Of course.”

We load the bags into Betty's trunk space. I hit the twenty-four-hour store for wrapping supplies before I pick up Blaise.

After five hours of sleep,
I spend ten hours wrapping gifts with $528 worth of holiday paper, ribbon, boxes and tape and deliver them to Lucy's house. I go directly from there to the Four Seasons Hotel to meet Lucy for tea and pray I can stay alert enough to write detailed notes.

I pull my SUV, which hasn't been cleaned in a good month, into the stone-paved driveway. The lineup of Rolls-Royces, BMWs and Maseratis, all shining clean, is intimidating. I don't see infant car seats protruding from the backseats or spent milk cartons in the cup holders. I see a plethora of brand new ghastly expensive cars that get replaced every two years with new models. Maybe I should park my eight-year-old Betty a block or so away.

I know when I pull up to the valet (who will look down his nose at me, but who will almost certainly have a car very similar to mine in age and dirt level parked beneath the hotel), he will search frantically for a place to put Betty where no one else will see her. I suppose if my job depended on it, I, too, would scramble to hide Betty in order to preserve the image of a perfectly manicured hotel.

I roll down my window and a young man approaches. His hair is trimmed and clean, his uniform is pressed with perfect creases, and his nametag reads “Homer.” Homer smiles widely, showing a set of dazzling teeth he probably got whitened in an hour and paid for with a Visa card he can't pay off.

“Hello, ma'am. May I ask how long you'll be staying?”

“Just an hour or so.”

“Okay, ma'am, if you'll pull your truck over there”—he points to some tall bushes—“I'll take care of it for you.”

I park Betty and quietly slip into the lobby of the hotel, where people are milling around waiting to be checked in. I veer to the right and enter the crowded tearoom.

As I scan the drinkers for Lucy, the room goes silent for an instant as the “tea-totalers” look up from their steaming brews and stare just long enough to dismiss me as no one of importance. Lucy hasn't shown up yet. Besides being incredibly indecisive, she is always late.

I look for a host or hostess to seat me, but none is present. I go to a table in the corner and pull out a seat. It's the only table left without a reserved sign on it. Waiting for Lucy, I stare out the window at the sky starting to open up and sprinkle water droplets everywhere.