“I’m charging the bastard,” she said. “Right here, see? That’s for sexual encounters. Over here I’ve detailed positions, approximate length of time, variations, etcetera.”
I stared at the lists: missionary, me on top, me on my side, doggy style, me over the kitchen table, me in the car.
“Laurel?” I said. “How long did you—”
Stephanie slammed in the door at that moment, bringing a draft of cold air. “The roads are a total mess,” she said. “Hammie could barely make it up C Street and he was like, work is totally gonna suck tonight and I’m like, keep your mind on the road…Whoa, what’s this? Doggy style? Me over the kitchen table? Mrs. Richards, are you totally writing erotica?”
“It’s mine,” Laurel said smugly. “I made a spreadsheet of sex with Hank.”
“Wow, four hours.” Stephanie said. “That’s awesome for an old guy.”
“I’m not sure how much to charge,” Laurel said. “I don’t want to make myself look cheap and charge too little, but I don’t want to make it look like it was a big deal, either.”
“Google it.” Stephanie leaned over and typed in “Prostitution rates” and “Alaska.” Over 549,000 hits came up. “Find the lowest and the highest and then figure out the, like, median average. Jay-Jay could totally do that in a minute.”
“I don’t think this is something we should involve Jay-Jay with,” I said.
“Chill, Mrs. Richards.” Stephanie popped her gum. “I was just, like, stating an undeniable fact.”
We settled on prices—$85 for a blow job, $100 for basic sex, $150 for extras such as multiple positions, and $500 for the few times they managed to spend the night together. I got up and slid two large flour tortillas filled with cheese, onions, and peppers into the oven for quesadillas.
“This is just the beginning,” Laurel said.
“Beginning?” I asked stupidly.
“Of all the stuff I’ll need: child support, health insurance, day-care expenses.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Private school, sports activities, braces, and a private East Coast college. Then of course he’ll have to pay for the wedding.”
“It’s a girl?” Stephanie asked.
“Of course it’s a girl,” Laurel snapped. “Do you think I’d consider bringing another man into this world?”
Chapter 17
Friday, Jan. 13 (bad luck for all!)
TODAY IT WAS THREE RIB BONES mailed in an overnight delivery box from San Diego and waiting by the mailbox when I got back from Killer’s morning walk.
“Cool, rib bones!” Jay-Jay said when he came out for breakfast. “Can I take them to school?”
“They might be important artifacts,” I said as I stirred oatmeal; I wanted to keep the bones for myself.
“Soon we’ll have a whole skeleton.” Jay-Jay chewed on toast. “This guy is weird, huh? Did Dad bring you bones?”
“He killed animals and brought them home, so, yeah, I guess you could say so.”
“On TV guys bring flowers, but that’s not Alaska, huh?”
As soon as he left for the bus stop, I pulled my easel out from the kitchen corner for a quick hour of painting before work. My latest Woman Running with a Box, No. 7 peered out from the canvas with my grandmother’s face but my eyes and mouth. Her blouse unraveled, and she cradled the box possessively against her chest, the lid loose, the ribbon tattered and torn. Both the box and the woman looked as if they had been through tough times. I worked fast, instinct taking over. When the alarm alerted me that it was time for work, I shook out my arms and stepped backward, catching the painting in full light. I gasped and quickly made the sign of the cross, the way Gramma used to whenever her cooking creations flopped. My Woman Running knelt on the ground in front of the white box, which had ripped open, an assortment of my dirty dolls climbing out. I recognized them immediately: Oral Me into Oblivion Oscar, Spank Me Silly Samantha, and Boob-a-Licious Billie, all of them outlined in the garish yellow of highlighter markers. They looked dangerously seductive yet strangely childlike, as if unaware of how much they needed protection. I peered more closely and noticed tiny messages scrawled over their arms and legs: Free Me. The rabbit vibrator stimulates the G spot. According to the Pope, birth control is a sin.
“Wow!” Stephanie whistled from behind me. She had snuck out of school for third period, which was gym; this week they were playing Nerf dodgeball. “Mrs. Richards, that’s, well, I totally don’t know what it is, but it’s visceral. It totally bites my mind.”
She was right. The longer I looked, the more I had to admit that it was good, very good, perhaps the best thing I’d ever done. I had caught the woman in suspended disbelief, in that moment of recognizing that something isn’t what it should be but still hoping the signs have been misread.
“You’ve got to send that out.” She searched the cupboards for a midmorning snack. “It’s a message, you know? It’s a voice you can’t, like, put into words.” She grabbed a package of saltine crackers and headed back to the living room. I washed out my brushes and covered the canvas with a clear gloss sealant, and right as I slipped my waitressing apron over my head (hoping that no one would notice the bright yellow paint embedded in my knuckles), the phone rang.
“Hello,” I yelled into the receiver.
“Mrs. Richards?” The woman’s voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “You need to pick up Jay-Jay.”
“Is he sick?” My heart sank: it was the principal of Jay-Jay’s school, a short woman who wore suits so sharp I had to resist the urge to salute.
“He’s exhibiting undesirable behavior.”
“I-I’m not sure what that means,” I stuttered.
“Can you be here in twenty minutes? I’ll schedule a meeting with Mr. Short to see if we can clear this up.”
I hung up, called work, and left a message for Mr. Tims that I had a family emergency, then hightailed it to Jay-Jay’s school. Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and sweaty feet. I sat in a chair in the office and watched the secretary eat M&M’S candies. Finally Mrs. Clampsen called me in.
“Sit.” She pointed to a chair. “Mr. Short and Jay-Jay will be here shortly. I wanted to talk with you first.” A faint mustache glowed across her upper lip. “Jay-Jay is extremely intelligent, Mrs. Richards, and we’re worried he’s not getting the correct stimulus at home.”
“Stimulus,” I repeated.
“He needs to broaden his horizons, attend museum and gallery functions.”
“Jay-Jay was at the museum last week,” I lied. I wanted to kick her fucking expensive shoes. I didn’t have the chance, though, because Mr. Short and Jay-Jay walked through the door.
“Uh-oh,” Jay-Jay said when he saw me.
“Jay-Jay, now that you have a parent here, why don’t you tell us about the incident this morning?” Mrs. Clampsen’s voice was sharp and cold.
“The incident,” Jay-Jay repeated with emphasis, “was that I gave Julianna a rib bone.”
My head jerked up. “Francisco’s bone?” I asked.
“It’s human?” Mrs. Clampsen clutched her throat. “It belonged to a dead person?”
“All bones belong to the dead.” Jay-Jay rolled his eyes.
“It’s okay, honey.” I reached out and patted his shoulder. “Just tell us why.”
“Julianna was crying in the janitor’s closet, Mom.” He kicked at the wastebasket with the toe of his sneaker. “Her parents are getting divorced, she’s real upset, they’re fighting over her and everything.”
“So you gave her a rib.” It made perfect sense. Francisco gave me the ribs to express his feelings for me, and Jay-Jay gave one to a girl to express his feelings for her. It was full circle, like the Oprah Giant talked about.
“Why a bone?” Mr. Short shook his head. He was a burly, short man with a receding hairline and crinkly eyes.
Jay-Jay looked miserable. “She said she felt like she was coming apart. It just seemed…I can’t explain it. It seemed right. I didn’t expect her to
freak out.”
“You did good, honey.” I reached over and hugged him.
“Well.” Mrs. Clampsen drew the word out between her clenched teeth, and then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Jay-Jay, you go back to class. Mr. Short and I need to talk with your mother for a minute.”
Jay-Jay glanced nervously from one face to another before heading to the door. There was a stain on the knee of his jeans and his shoes were untied. My heart ached. I wanted to gather him in my arms, never let him go. “Now,” Mrs. Clampsen said. “I probably don’t need to tell you, Mrs. Richards, that Jay-Jay is smart, extremely smart. He tested off the charts, and his analytical reasoning is higher than anyone we’ve seen in a long time.”
I nodded and tucked my hands beneath my waitressing uniform, which had a smear of dried salsa across the hem.
“He needs to be in a more intellectually driven environment. Colleges are cutthroat these days. He’ll need advanced languages, classical literature, and a strong focus on the sciences.”
“He’s eight,” I said.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Clampsen’s glasses glinted in the overhead light.
“Well, shouldn’t we be talking about middle school, not college?”
Mrs. Clampsen removed her glasses and rubbed her nose. “Timothy, can you explain? I haven’t the patience today.”
Mr. Short leaned forward. He smelled like Aqua Velva aftershave and wood chips. “What Mrs. Clampsen is saying is that Jay-Jay has the potential, and drive, to go far. We’re afraid he isn’t getting enough push at home. We’d hate to see him stunted by his, ah, social situation.”
“You mean me?” My hand flew out from beneath my leg and slammed down on the table. Mrs. Clampsen jumped slightly. “You mean that you don’t think I’m smart enough to mother my own child.” I stood up and pulled my jacket closed. “I birthed him. Those smarty-pants genes had to come from someone.” I was giving them exactly the low-class scenario they expected, but I couldn’t stop. “I may live in a trailer, I may work as a waitress, but at least I have manners. I would never insinuate that someone was too dumb to guide her own child.”
“Calm down, Mrs. Richards. We were simply stating—”
I cut off Mr. Short with a wave of my hand. “I have to get to work.” I leaned over and stuck out my hand. “Thank you for the meeting,” I said. It was a tactic I had learned waiting tables. We called it KTWK, which stood for Kill Them with Kindness, and it was amazingly effective. It worked this time, too.
“Don’t forget the summer camp forms,” Mrs. Clampsen called out as I walked toward the door. “We need everything by the beginning of February.”
“Camp?” It was the first I had heard about it.
Mr. Short walked me down the hall. “Gifted camp, with an emphasis in mathematical studies,” he explained. “At Berkeley this summer. The competition is fierce, but we feel Jay-Jay has a good chance. Less than 2 percent of applicants are accepted. The essay is of particular importance.”
“Listen.” I stopped by a locker covered with Hannah Montana stickers. “Is it just me, or isn’t camp supposed to mean marshmallows and bee stings?”
Mr. Short laughed, as if I had told a joke. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Richards, Jay-Jay will have more than enough opportunity for fun after he brushes up on the basics.”
“How much?” I hated the edge in my voice. “For the camp, how much?”
Mr. Short squirmed. “There’s financial aid, of course, and partial scholarships.”
I waited.
“Three thousand for one week, forty-five hundred for two.”
“Holy shit.” I slumped against the locker. “My trailer is barely worth that much.”
“Mrs. Richards, we must be brave.” Mr. Short patted my shoulder awkwardly.
On the way home, I was so upset that I missed a stop sign and was pulled over by a good-looking cop.
“Any reason why you decided not to stop?” His crotch was at my opened window, staring me directly in the face.
“My son is applying to Berkeley summer camp and I live in a trailer,” I said.
“The last lady had a dying grandmother.” He scribbled something down. “License and registration, please.”
I handed him my driver’s license and groped around the glove box for my registration, praying that it was current. It wasn’t.
“Says here that you’re five foot eleven.” He peered inside the window. “Unless you’ve got really long legs, that’s a lie.”
I fiddled with my seat belt, which suddenly felt too tight. “It’s so I can weigh more.” He stared. “You know, the taller you are, the more you can weigh. According to those charts in the doctor’s office,” I added.
“Registration, please” was the only thing he said. I gave him my expired card.
“Did you lie on this, too, or is it really expired?”
I flushed. “No, it’s expired.”
He didn’t say anything. “I’m waiting for your excuse. I figure it’s gonna be a good one.”
I took a breath. “I haven’t gotten to that part of the Oprah Giant’s diary yet, you know, the organizational skills. I’m still straightening out my finances, which have gotten better, by the way. And I’m painting again, though—”
He raised his hand. “Stop, please. I’ll just be a minute.” He left to return to his patrol car as I fiddled with the radio and worried how much the ticket would be: A hundred fifty dollars? Two hundred? I had never gotten a ticket before, not even the time I was stopped outside of Healy and the whole car reeked of dope. But my luck was changing, I could feel it. This was going to be the Year of the Ticket. Still, the cop did have a nice crotch. I wondered if I could use him as a dirty doll model. Would he pose for me if I asked discreetly? Men were vain about their cocks; they didn’t hesitate to show them off. And putting one in a painting, why, that was akin to immortalizing it, every man’s dream. I was wondering if this cop’s dick was straight or hooked to the right like an apostrophe when he appeared in the window.
“Carlita Richards?”
“Yes.” I sat up straight. “That’s me.”
“Says in public records that you’re divorced.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Was I about to be propositioned? Had he somehow picked up on my vibes?
“A single mom to this kid who wants to go to camp at UCLA?”
“Berkeley,” I corrected.
“Tell you what I’m gonna do.” He leaned over until he had practically shoved his way into the car. “My momma raised three kids by herself, worked two jobs. It’s tough. But you still got to obey the law.” He straightened up. “I’m issuing a verbal warning for failure to stop and a thirty-day notice to get your vehicle registered.”
“Th-th-thanks,” I stuttered, close to tears.
“I’m not always this nice. If I see you driving so much as an inch over the speed limit, I’m gonna nail you. Now get out of here before I change my mind.” He slapped the roof of my car and strutted away. I watched his ass, appreciating the way the dark pants flattered his hips and thighs, imagining him bent over, his ass enlarged and shining like the moon: Carnal Cops, I would call it, or maybe Pull Me Over and Pull It Out.
I was so distracted that I almost missed the next stop sign, too, but luckily the cop was long gone by then.
Me, early in the morning
Early this morning before anyone woke I snuck out with Killer on the pretense of taking a walk. Instead I got into the car and drove out toward Earthquake Park, pulled up in front of an ugly pinkish-orange house, and slipped a manila envelope into the mailbox. I drove back home, made a pot of coffee, and was sitting at the table reading the paper by the time Stephanie and Jay-Jay stumbled out of bed.
“Morning,” I said cheerfully, as if trying to hide my guilt. No one noticed anything different about me as they rushed around looking for lost notebooks and stray socks. After the door slammed and I was left alone with Laurel sleeping in the bedroom and Killer sleeping at my feet, I sat and stared at my ha
nds, which are thick knuckled with long fingers, my nails embedded with paint, so that I have to wear dark polish to hide the stains.
The envelope I left in Francisco’s mailbox contained three pieces of the Woman Running with a Box, No. 9 watercolor cut into eight slices, like a pie. I served him one for each bone he’s left me. He leaves me parts of a skeleton, which are physical, and I leave him parts of my painting, which are visceral. We are both giving and receiving, though it’s far too early to know who is giving the most. I’d like to think that it is me, but he would probably think the same thing. Probably, we always think that we are giving more than we actually are.
Saturday, Jan. 14
I. Am. So. Depressed. Again.
I opened the newspaper this morning to the large, smiling photograph of a woman from my childbirth class. She had published an award-winning poetry book, and one reviewer praised it as “images filling the tongue like rain.” I skimmed through the article. Mari Campton had three kids under the age of nine, and after her husband died four summers ago (he had fallen backward over a cliff while photographing mountain sheep), she decided to put her grief into words. She worked full-time as an occupational therapist and was getting a master’s in writing—where in the world had she found the time? I worked full-time, had one child, and was lucky to find a spare hour to paint twice a week. Yet she had managed not only to hold herself together through her husband’s death but to care for three children, work, go to school, and write a book.
“I wrote in the mornings before the children woke,” she said in the article. “I carried around a tape recorder and recorded lines that came to me as I drove to swim lessons and gymnastics. I wrote in the bathtub and during lunch hours.”
It took her almost three years to finish the book.
I ate the crusts of Jay-Jay’s leftover toast and read the excerpt. It was good, really good. I was jealous beyond words: Someone had what I wanted and, worse yet, probably deserved it more. She had worked harder to write that book than I had ever with my painting. She found time in minutes, not hours, and did the best she could. She hadn’t given up or pushed her poems aside or stored them in a closet. She brought them out, made them part of her life.
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