Santa Monica
Page 36
42
Leticia
LETTIE STILL HAD NIGHTMARES. ANDRES SCREAMING FOR HELP—Ayúdame! Mama!—her little boy shaking with fear on the back patio of Mel’s house, surrounded by bodies leaping into the air. Bodies forming a wall. Lettie trapped on one side, Andres on the other.
Here! Lettie shouted in the bad dream. I am here! She jumped up and down like one of the exercising people, waving an arm. I am coming to you, my baby—wait for Mama!
But someone had turned up the volume and pounding dance music crashed out of the speakers.
Get after it, people! the crazy tattooed lady yelled. Show me them jump squats!
Tío! Andres howled.
And this was when Lettie always woke, the neck of her pajama shirt heavy with sweat, her son’s cries ringing in her ears, her wide eyes searching for Andres, who was, each time, peacefully asleep right next to Lettie in the big bed of Mel’s guest bedroom.
Now it was Lettie and Andres’s bedroom, although no matter how many times Mel promised Lettie this was true, she could not quite believe it. Found herself waiting for bad news, expecting, any minute, for Mel to ask Lettie and Andres to leave the big and beautiful home on Georgina Avenue.
Lettie wished she could tell Mel the truth of Zacarias’s death. Like when she found Mel crying in the sauna Mel had installed by the pool after Adam moved out.
There was only one reason Mel was crying, Lettie knew, for her favorite boss, now a true friend—and roommate—was happy. But for the loss of Zacarias.
Lettie missed him, too. Zacarias the clown. Zacarias the ladies’ man. Most, she missed Tío Zacarias—the man who kissed Andres’s boo-boos and rocked him to sleep when he had a fever. Poor Andres mourned his tío with tears Lettie had feared were endless. But the minds of children are changeable, Lettie knew. Two years, maybe less, and Andres’s memory of his handsome uncle would be just as hazy as the accident. His tío more a hero in a fairy tale than a living, breathing man. Like Lettie’s own memories of her and Zack’s abuela, who had passed away in her sleep just two weeks after Lettie found her brother on the gym floor.
Children were given a gift, Lettie thought, a chance to scrub clean memories of pain and loss and disappointment, like a washcloth dragged across a greasy countertop. Good as new.
Lettie too had been given a new beginning. A re-do as Mel said to Sloane when the fiery girl fought with her mother, blaming her for the divorce. Version two, as Lettie heard Mel call her life after Adam with a bittersweet laugh.
Lettie was taking classes at Santa Monica community college. What a country—America! A free education for any person who wanted to learn, even a poor without-papers woman with a record. Melissa had helped her study for the GED exam, reassuring Lettie when she failed the test not once, but twice. No biggie, as Andres liked to say, because here Lettie was, taking classes to earn a certificate in Recycling and Resource Management. Now she was an expert recycler, and hoped to, someday, visit schools, just like the pretty lady in the white doctor’s coat at the assembly at Andres’s school. She would teach children to save Mother Earth and fight the war against evil climate change.
She had convinced Melissa to stop watering the thirsty front and back lawn, and started a compost pile behind the avocado tree. So what if the rats came at night for a little snack? She was helping save the planet.
Lettie had been saved twice. First by Mr. Jensen, who had put a long and muscled arm around her shaking shoulders as the paramedics lifted Zacarias’s still body into the back of the ambulance. She would never forget Mr. Jensen’s scent—manly aftershave and mint candies—as he’d whispered close to her ear, shushing her like she was a child. Everything will be okay, Lucretia. The snake didn’t even know her name. She’d fought the desire to shove him away, kick at his knees with her piss-soaked sneakers, stomp on his face that was so free of lines he seemed to be wearing one of the rubber masks she and Zacarias had worn on Halloween.
But who was she? No one. Worse, one of the illegals El Trumpo and his gang blamed for all the problems in America.
She had known staying silent was wrong. That she should go to the police. Tell them something was rotten with Mr. Jensen. Why couldn’t the police see it themselves? Were they so stupid they could not see how pale Mr. Jensen was, or how his hands shook, or the bruises on his neck under the turned-up collar of his shirt?
We see what we want to see, she knew that now, and forever. Promised herself it would be one of the many lessons she’d teach Andres so he’d be sure to survive this ugly world.
Everything will be okay, Mr. Jensen had said again and again, like a child waking from a bad dream.
In the back office of the gym, she’d sat with her hands tucked between her legs, not caring if her wet sweatpants made the chair smell like pee, staring past Mr. Jensen’s stiff silver hair. She listened, nodding as he talked and talked and talked. She’d learned this quickly in America—how the rich white people used so many words to try to fix their mistakes, as if words had the power of the chemicals she used to clean toilets free of their stinking shit.
We don’t want to scare the community, he had said. So, I’d appreciate it . . . I’d be very appreciative . . .
She had laughed. Another man using big words that meant nothing to her.
I understand, Mr. Jensen had said. You’re in shock.
You will give me money. She had surprised herself—was that her voice giving commands like a captain?
Yes, of course.
She waited a few long beats, thinking. I have a small problem with the law. A shoplifting arrest. You will make that problem go away.
Absolutely. Mr. Jensen pumped his head back and forth. I’m more than happy. Zack would want—
Lettie cut in. Do not use his name.
She had never interrupted a white man. She had never interrupted any man, knowing it would have brought only pain—open-handed slaps from her uncles and man cousins; worse from Manuel.
The power burned through her—like fire and ice racing through her veins, making her heart beat so fast she lifted a fist to her chest. It had come to her after she had seen her brother flat on the gym floor, neck bent, shit and piss pooled under him. After she’d cleaned up the mess, the chemicals stinging her eyes and numbing her fingertips through the plastic gloves she wore. Most of all, Lettie’s power came after Mr. Jensen had appeared from the parking lot behind the studio—had the coward been hiding in the gym’s van?—and locked his lizard eyes to hers, pretending to be shocked at the scene.
Knowing she knew the truth.
Now, with her power, Lettie was seeing the world as it truly was for the first time. Knowing people would stop at nothing to get what they needed. Knowing she should be no different.
You will give me all the money I tell you to give, Mr. Jensen. I know you have much money. My brother, Zacarias, he told me. And you will also fix my problems with the law. You will talk to the courts. You will pay.
As Mr. Jensen nodded, his sharp jaw like a saw in the dim light of Color Theory Fitness, Lettie spat on the spongy floor. The foamy wetness landed beside her employer’s foot. She would not clean it up. She was finished cleaning up their messes, the fortunate souls of Santa Monica.
Acknowledgments
Mega-thanks to:
Our Queens in the Machine: Susan Golomb, Maria Massie, Sara Nelson, and Mary Gaule
The Fierro Feinstein and Wolfson Widger families
Kenia, Ita, and Yolanda
The Sackett Writers’ Workshop
The city of Santa Monica
Circuit Works
The transcendent power of friendship
About the Author
CASSIDY LUCAS is the pen name of writing duo Julia Fierro and Caeli Wolfson Widger. Fierro is the author of the novels Cutting Teeth, praised by The New Yorker as a “comically energetic debut,” and The Gypsy Moth Summer, called “hugely engaging” by Francine Prose. Widger is the author of the novels Real Happy Family and Mother of Invention, praised by Ma
rgaret Atwood as a “pacey thriller!” and was featured on NPR’s Marketplace. Both Fierro and Widger live in Santa Monica with their families. This is their first book together.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SANTA MONICA. Copyright © 2020 by Caeli Wolfson Widger and Julia Fierro. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by Caroline Johnson
Cover photograph © Lena Wagner/Getty Images
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-301845-7
Version 07312020
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-301844-0 (pbk.)
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com