by Xyla Turner
“Can you start tomorrow?” she asked with an almost desperation in her voice.
“Mrs. Vega, that’s awfully early,” I answered honestly. “Also, I would prefer not to do the live-in.”
“I know, but—” She didn’t finish her sentence because she was interrupted by Mr. Vega, who called her name in that same stern voice he spoke to me with earlier.
“A word,” he beckoned.
She looked like she wanted to sigh but kept it in, saying, “Excuse me,” and went to him.
I wandered to the living room, where my bag remained, and strapped it across my body.
A few moments later, Mr. Vega came back into the living quarters and said, “Ms. Jacobs, thank you for stopping by. We’ll be in touch with your agency. I’ll see you out.”
Mmmkay.
“Okay, please tell Mrs. Vega I said good night,” I replied and led the way so that I could get out from his presence sooner rather than later.
“Good evening,” he called as I descended down the concrete stairs once I was outside. I turned to say bye, but the door was already closing.
Well, okay.
That was a hard no.
Mr. Vega - Ch. 1
Faith Jacobs
“She offered you the job on the spot but then changed her mind?” Mama asked.
“No, Mama, she didn’t change her mind,” I said for the fifth time. “He must have. He was a jerk, I tell you. Like, a real jerk. The kid was nice, and so was his mother, but that man. I don’t want to work for them, Mama. He was not nice, did not apologize for being rude, and seemed to be overbearing.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I put away the canned goods in the cupboard. Mama focused on the items for the freezer.
“I’ve had parents like that. I’d steer clear of them because they had other issues that I never wanted to uncover,” she said as she stuffed the beef in between the other meats in the freezer. “Steer clear, sweetie.”
“Mama, I don’t think I have the job. He clearly didn’t like me, and he did not seem like the type of man that would allow her to rule or make a decision like that. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, sweetie. I know those men well.” She shook her head, and I wasn’t sure if she was speaking about clients or my absent father. Mama didn’t mention the man even when we were children. She just said that he was alive and in Trinidad. Cordelia and I never asked about him, but there were times when I was curious—not enough to pursue the matter but had some thoughts about him. I wondered what he was like. She had pictures of him, but that was about it. “What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a curator, which is why he travels all the time,” I told her. “Well, I’ll go back tomorrow and speak to Mrs. Edness,” I shared as I put away the last can of red beans. “She had a list of things, so we’ll move forward from there.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Mom nodded as she closed the freezer door. “You’re smart. You’ll get something.”
I left the house and wandered to my make-shift studio and looked at all my paintings while thinking of the words Mr. Vega said. He called my art a failure, but when I perused what I had created, which were the thirty canvases were on stands throughout the small space; I did not see failure. I saw potential, but that small voice on the inside kept saying never. I had tried to shut it up in the beginning, but it was a lot louder now.
When that usually happened, I would begin to paint my way out of a depression. It didn’t make sense to stay here, so I sat down and began to paint my NEVER.
I wrote the word in the middle of the white canvas and began to make things bloom from the dark letters, using it almost as a flowerpot. I wanted to turn those Nevers into possibilities, and with each seed, it produced something amazing.
Two hours later, I had finished and managed to get paint everywhere. It was intense, but I felt ten times better, as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
On my walk home, since the studio was around the corner, my phone began to light up with messages, voicemails, and texts. Since it was underground, I did not have cell phone reception. Mama knew where I was, so it wasn’t her calling me like that, so I took out the phone to see it was Mrs. Edness from the agency.
“Call me when you get this, no matter the time,” she rushed out in the voicemail.
There were three more calls like that, but it seemed urgent, so I called her back immediately.
“Mrs. Edness, is everything all right?” I asked with no greeting.
“Darling, where ya been?” she exclaimed. “Your mama said you were in the studio, and she wasn’t bothering ya, but I had news for you,” the woman rushed out. “Where are ya now?”
“I’m on my way home.” I was confused. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, well, except Mrs. Vega calling me every thirty minutes to see if I got ahold of you yet. She desperately wants you to start working for her as of tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I looked at my watch. “That’s not the impression I got from her husband.”
“Yeah, well.” She huffed and sucked her teeth in a slow beat, and I could only imagine her head turning to look at the phone with her famous side-eye. “Guess, she got her way. Can you do it?”
There was no immediate answer to give her as I thought of things I had to do. Well, for one, I had not much to do because, bingo, I didn’t have a gotdamn job.
“Yeah, Mrs. Edness,” I replied. “I can start tomorrow.”
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “I’ll text you her number now. She wants to talk to you directly. She’s an anxious woman but a good employer. Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks!” I answered.
I walked the ten minutes left before I hit my place and plopped on the couch. Mama had already retired to bed but left the television on for me to watch absently when I came in. This was her ritual.
As I put the volume on mute, I called Mrs. Vega, and the phone rang exactly once when she answered.
“Faith?”
“Yes, Mrs. Vega, this is she,” I replied, “Good evening.”
“Yes, good evening.” She sounded relieved. “I wanted to offer you the job because I think you’ll be the best fit for Casey. He liked you, of course, and we do too.”
I almost wanted to counter her argument but then remembered the man was not ever around, so I would have very little interaction with him anyway.
“Great,” I replied. “So what time should I report tomorrow?”
“Six-thirty would be ideal because Casey will need his breakfast and lunch made for school. He needs to be dropped off, picked up, etc. However, I’ll need to go over some things with you beforehand, so six-thirty is the start time,” she concluded.
“Sounds good, Mrs. Vega,” I answered. “I’ll see you all tomorrow morning then.”
“Great.” She sighed. “I’m glad to have you aboard, Team Vega.”
I smiled and said, “Happy to be here, ma’am.”
Hmm.
I looked around the apartment, then at the time, and jumped up to get in the shower and prepare for the big first day of being a real-life nanny. It was not easy work, and it required someone to be on their toes at all times. It was more than just the client; some outside factors also made the job harder. A position that required you to look after a person or an entire family was not for the faint of heart. Sometimes, I wondered if people really knew what it took to run a household.
When I knocked on the door at six-fifteen, Mrs. Vega answered with a huge smile.
“Early,” she commented. “I like that.”
I smiled but didn’t comment and thought my mother’s words were never truer. If you’re on time, you’re late. So I always planned to be at my destination fifteen minutes early. This gave room for train delays, which often happened in New York, and human issues like emergency bathroom use. That’s happened to me often enough too, especially when I’m nervous.
“Thank you again,” she said as she led me upstairs again, “for coming on such short notice. Case
y is expecting you as he can’t wait to tell you he almost made it to world 5.”
I laughed and followed her into the kitchen, where she sat down, just like the day before. On the table was a thick folder that she opened and said, “This is everything about Casey, and I want to make sure that you are well prepared.”
The woman was acting like she was leaving for good. As soon as that thought came, Mr. Vega, the asshole himself, walked into the kitchen in a tailored suit, looking like a million dollars with a haircut to match. Maybe it was styled today.
“Sweetheart, I’m leaving.” His eyes landed on his wife before he looked at me. “Ms. Jacobs, good to see you again.”
“Mr. Vega,” I greeted and turned my eyes back to the folder on the table as if it would speak to me instead of him.
The woman stood from her chair, greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, and said, “Okay, Logan. Have a safe trip, and I’ll talk to you tonight. Just got to get Faith set up here.”
He looked into her eyes as if they were talking without words, and she smiled and kissed him again—but this time, it was on the lips.
“Have a safe trip.” She smiled. “Did you say bye to Casey?”
“Course,” he replied. “He’s working on getting to world 5. Good luck getting him to do his homework.”
I didn’t even look up to acknowledge the dig he was throwing my way because he could kick boulders with sandals on for all I cared.
“Ms. Jacobs,” he called as he left the kitchen.
“Mr. Vega,” I called back.
His wife must have picked up the terse tones between the two of us because she smiled at me and said, “He’s really a good guy. He’s under a lot of pressure, but I can’t apologize enough as to why he said that yesterday.”
“It’s old news,” I commented so that she would drop it.
“It’s not, but I’ll let it go.” She nodded. “As a fellow artist myself, I know it’s not just old but alive and well. Keep pushing for your dream. That’s all I’ll say about it. Let nobody—and I mean nobody—keep you from doing what you love.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded.
“You only get one life, Faith,” she murmured, then opened the folder and began to walk through all that was Casey—from his favorite foods to his immunization records, birth certificate, social security card, doctors, allergies, teachers, and neighbors with kids. She kept meticulous records for her son, which was cool, as it felt that I already had a window into what his day could look like.
“This is super helpful,” I told her.
“Good.” She nodded. “Now, let’s go get the tiny tot ready. I’ll go with you to his school so we can chat and introduce you to the teacher, principal, and other staff. This will get him used to it, but they’ll get to know you as well.”
We stood up and went to his room. Casey was a well-mannered child. He followed the directions of his mother, and we made it to school with no hassle. Once introductions were made and he was safely in homeroom, Mrs. Vega and I parted ways, but not before she gave me keys, alarm codes, prepaid grocery store card, and contact information for her and her husband—this included the mobile, work, and both of their assistants’ information.
“Any relatives?” I asked.
“None,” she said as she caught the Uber that was waiting for her. “We’re the Vega tribe. Just us.”
Damn.
The trip to his school was only thirty minutes, which allowed me time to go back, clean, and prepare dinner for the evening. I saw that Casey’s favorite dish was spaghetti and meatballs.
He liked Rice Krispies Treats and Cheez-Its and was not a fan of chocolate. I was, so that was good. I could have my snacks to myself. Casey was a video gamer, but he needed balance with these items, stated a note from his mother. He was a good student, conscientious about his family and their needs, even at such a young age. He was a problem solver, which could get him into mischief at times, and he loved old-school cartoons and games and didn’t really stay up to date with new things. This is how he was able to connect with his dad when he was younger.
The father didn’t strike me as the type, but what did I know about him as a father? The man as an employer was not good, but that was my only lens. Mrs. Vega seemed to like him as a husband, but with that schedule, that was what probably made the marriage work—his being away.
Anyway, after I went grocery shopping with the card that Mrs. Vega gave me, washed clothes that were in the laundry, folded them, and put on dinner, it was time to pick up Casey from school. The kid held my hand right away, shared his day, and told me how a boy said that his hair was cut using a bowl.
“A bowl cut?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s what he called it,” he replied excitedly. “He said I had a bowl cut.”
“Do you?” I asked back. “Is it true?”
“No,” he pondered, then looked up at me and said, “Why would he say that?”
“Probably because he had a bowl cut, that’s the only way someone knows what it is.” I looked at his hair.
It did look like someone put a bowl on the boy’s head and cut it from there, but it suited him. He was a cute little boy that would draw women unto him, as he was on par for looking like his father. He had the same light eyes, the nose was in the making, but he had his mother’s plump lips. She was a curvy white woman. Today she looked good and wore clothes that accentuated her body type.
Casey and I made one stop to get some Italian ice. This was more for me because he never had any. It was hot, so it was my pleasure to introduce him to a tasty, cold treat.
By the time we reached home, Casey and I set up a routine that we’d follow. Homework, I’d review, help, some play time, and then dinner. He’d wash up, and we’d read a book before bedtime. It seemed that the parents hadn’t really set up those structures for the young boy, so this was new to him. However, during his playtime, we used construction paper to make his schedule and post it on the bottom wall so he could see it. He was learning to read, so there were words and pictures next to everything.
The first night, it worked, which shocked Mrs. Vega when she came home around seven o’clock to see her son in bed. I explained everything we did—the plan and the day. Once, I’d given her the receipts and made my exit, she texted me an hour late and thanked me for washing, folding, and making dinner for her too. I had forgotten about that part but told her it wasn’t a problem and I’d see her tomorrow morning.
The next week went by like this, and so did the month. Mr. Vega had come home for a week or two, but I’d kept up my mantra of being scarce around him. The first time, it was hard as he was in the house most of the time. So I adjusted my schedule to make sure I was outside of the house, and it’d be a taco day or something easy to make that did not require a lot of prep time.
We did our customary greetings of saying the other’s formal name but kept it there for the most part. Mrs. Vega saw it but never addressed it after she said she’d stop apologizing for him the first time.
Another month passed, and Mrs. Vega began to lose some of her curves. Another month passed, and she was home a lot earlier but in bed. A month after that, Mr. Vega was not traveling so much, and Mrs. Vega was home every day, but they kept me on to watch over Casey. They would whisper and have small arguments, but those were the times that I’d work hard at being extra competitive with Casey on a video game. I had asked a few times if she was all right, but she claimed she would be fine. She told me in a nice way that my concern should be around Casey.
There was something going on with the two of them that they weren’t sharing with Casey or me—not that they had to. It was none of my business, but I found myself cooking for the three of them because Mr. Vega did not cook and Mrs. Vega was in bed most of the time. She had given me a list of things that she could eat, so I made sure she had her own meals.
One evening, after putting Casey down for bed, I saw Mr. Vega near the fire with a glass of whiskey. They had one of those electric fireplaces tha
t looked really cool against the brick wall. It was fall, but I guess he was cold, which was something that the brownstones suffered from during the colder months.
“Ms. Jacobs,” he called to me.
This wasn’t his customary greeting, but the inflection in his voice made it seem as though he had a question.
“Yes,” I answered and remained at the mouth of the living room, which connected to the kitchen area.
“Can you cut a slice of your sweet potato pie and join me over here, please?” he asked.
His tone was not terse, and it even seemed a bit sad, but I didn’t like the idea of sitting near him in any way. I mean, he’d never done anything inappropriate to me before, but Mama always told me about what is and what can be interpreted. I took heed to that, so I sliced him a piece of the pie, gave it to him, and remained standing away from him.
When he saw that I did not obey him, he turned to stare at me with dead eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought the man was defeated. He looked like someone had beat the shit out of him. Dark circles were under his eyes, and there was no life or even spark in those light gray irises of his.
Damn.
“Are you all right, sir?” I asked.
“It’s Logan,” he corrected. “I’m not sir, Mr. Vega, or any of that shit. Call me Logan, Faith.”
I wasn’t in agreement with that, but I did not plan on arguing with the man.
“Have a seat,” he commanded. “We need to talk.”
“About?” I asked but still didn’t move from my spot.
“Sit,” he snapped.
This was my cue to go. He and I already started off on the wrong foot, and it looked like he was trying to go zero for two.
“Please,” he insisted. “It’s important.”
Reluctantly, I pulled up a seat on the other side of the fire with the recliner and crossed my legs.
His eyes were on the faux fire again, and he tossed the drinks back.
