The dogs greet me as I let myself in. They’ve been good, and they go outside into the yard with very little fanfare now. I go through the usual routine: washing out their bowls, sweeping up the hair, shaking out their blankets. When I leave, I’ll make sure there’s food for them, but Mr. M will have to take care of the evening feeding.
The coffee up here is done, and I pour myself my second cup. I’ve outsmarted myself: I have nothing to do this morning. Nothing that can’t wait. There’s ironing piling up, but Mr. M has so many clothes that I don’t feel a pressing need to get pressing. So I sit at the kitchen table for a moment, and the phone rings, just about scaring the life out of me. It’s a reflex, though, and I pick up the receiver. I needn’t have, I hear Mr. M’s gruff voice giving what all to the caller, and don’t hesitate in hanging the phone right back up.
Nothing like a seven-thirty wake-up call to start his day off right.
It doesn’t take very long for Mr. M to make an appearance. He seems as startled to see me here as I was to hear the phone ring.
“Mornin’,” he says around the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He’s scratching an armpit on entry, but switches to hitching his sweatpants up, because they’re about to fall off and it’s all that he’s wearing. “I thought you weren’t here today.”
“I’m not here tomorrow, at least not this early. Not at all if you don’t need me.” I’m trying hard not to stare. He’s got tattoos all over the place. Not just his arms, but his back and stomach, too. I’m not that out of the loop of current trends, and I understand that tattooing and piercing have become popular, if not downright commonplace. Particularly for entertainers. This just seems... extreme. Extreme and random. I’m sure he has a story about each one. “What’ll it be this morning?”
“Nothin’ but coffee, I’m heading out to breakfast and golf in about forty-five minutes,” he says. “You don’t need to hang around here today.”
“And the dogs?” I hate to remind him, but I do as I place his mug of coffee in front of him.
“Ah, shit,” he murmurs.
“I’m not going anywhere for a while,” I tell him, “and I’ll give them their first feeding and bring them in before I leave. If I’m back before you, I’ll feed them again later, but if...”
“I’ll be back.”
“I’ll have my cell phone with me, just in case.”
“I’ll be back,” he assures me.
“There are quite a few leftovers in the fridge, so you won’t go hungry,” I tell him. “If there’s anything you can think of that you need, add it to the list here,” and I tap the piece of paper on the refrigerator where I keep my running grocery list. “I’m going shopping Monday morning.”
“Thanks,” he says. And I’m out the door.
I don’t want to spend this morning thinking about the things that I need to do for this man. I’m glad this was a sort of short week, because I’m a little burnt around the edges and need a bit of breathing room. I’m glad that he’s golfing, too, and that he’ll be occupied for the better part of the day. The dogs will be a snap, and as I told him, if I’m back before he is, I’ll give them their evening meal. And if I’m not, well, then I’m not.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
Kim’s mother is, on initial contact, a friendly and outgoing person. She’s a small, bubbly blond who seems to be in constant motion, whizzing around her kitchen, pouring me coffee and making herself some tea while the girls take off for Kim’s room. I know this drill, I’ve done it enough times.
“I’m Michael,” she tells me, with a roll of her eyes, “yeah, I know, but my parents always wanted a boy,” and she laughs as she sets out sugar, sugar substitute, and a carton of milk. “You can call me Mickie. Kim says that you and Letitia have just moved here from Ohio.”
Then it’s my turn to tell my little saga of out trip to the west. I don’t go into details, no one is ever interested in them anyway. Mickie seems to be paying attention, though, and she nods her head in all the right places, and makes the appropriate ‘umms’ and ‘ahs’ when called upon. While I talk I take in what I can see of her house. It’s modest by Malibu standards, small when compared to the hacienda de McLean.
“We’re not from out here, either,” Mickie offers. “We’re from Massachusetts, originally, but we’ve been here for years and years. I was at Berklee when I met my husband and we migrated out here because of the work. I’m a studio musician.”
“Really?” It’s my turn to give the interested response, although I’m actually interested. I seem to have stumbled into a nest of musicians.
“Yeah, and Dwayne’s in real estate. It was either New York City or here, and the weather’s better here.” We laugh, and I tell her that it, too, was the weather that made my decision to relocate her in California.
“What do YOU do?” she asks.
Now here’s the hitch. I never know what kind of response is coming to whatever answer I’m going to give. A thousand thoughts slip through my head at lightening speed, along with the varying reactions I’ve gotten over the years. This is the part where I don’t want to blow it for my kid. This is where it can get tricky. How is this person going to react to me as someone less than affluent?
“I’m a housekeeper, at the moment.”
“Cool gig,” she says. “Anyone famous?”
“I guess. Alex McLean?” I give the name as a question. For a moment, Mickie’s brow knits, and then her face smoothes out and she gives a little snort.
“Oh yeah, the Backstreet Boy.” She sounds neither impressed, nor unimpressed. “I guess he’s been in the neighborhood a while.”
“I don’t really know, I just started working for him this week.”
“He’s got that big house up on the hill, right?”
“Yes,” and I share the address with her, because Kim is going to come over after our shopping spree for a swim and probably supper.
“So, what’s he doing?” she asks me. The question isn’t probing, it doesn’t sound like prying, but I’m reluctant to give an answer. What do I say, anyway? Nothing? That he’s doing nothing?
“I don’t know.”
“You’re good,” she says with a smile, and she lights a cigarette. “I can respect that. I was just wondering if he was working on anything. You know, a single, a CD?”
“Oh. I don’t think so.” I shrug. “He’s not around a lot. I thought the Backstreet Boys had broken up.”
“Not that I’ve heard, and I usually hear it all,” she says. “I know that a couple of the other ones are doing their own thing, so I assumed, but I haven’t heard anything about him in particular.” Mickie offers me a smile, and I find myself smiling back. “It’s always good to keep your network up and running.”
Mickie shifts gears with ease, slipping back into ‘mom’ mode. I don’t really mind her asking questions, I’m simply not sure how to answer them. It makes my realize that I don’t know all that much about my boss. It makes me realize that perhaps I’ve kept it that way on purpose, but he hasn’t struck me as the kind of man open to a lot of probing himself. Still, I’m not about to tell tales out of school, even though I have nothing to tell.
We settle on the arrangements for the day. I’m going to take the girls shopping, but Mickie has invited us to supper afterwards.
Someone else is going to cook for me today. Nirvana.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
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I don’t get home until late. For whatever reason, I think to check the alarm, see that it’s been set, and punch the code in before I let myself into the house.
It’s quiet inside. Cool and quiet. I’ve got a wicked assed sunburn from being out on the course today. Instead of eighteen holes, Rene and I played thirty-six. I ache from head to toe, because we walked the course. Both games.
The dogs hear me and begin to bark. It’s not too late, but I see that Shi has not come back, I noticed that her car was gone. What a piece of shit that thing it. I’m gonna have her dump it; she can have the Jeep. Or I’ll get her a Jeep. Or something else, because that thing she’s drivin’ is gonna die any minute. Anyway, the dogs want their food, they want to be let out. Their blankets aren’t in the dining room, and I think, seriously, did they eat ‘em? Then I laugh, because I know where they are, they’re in the dryers.
While the dogs run around the yard I get the blankets, fill their bowls with water, and hope that it’s okay. The dry food is outside in a shed area under some steps. I’ll have to feed them, they’re scratching at the shed door, letting me know. I’m pouring out the dog chow when I hear Shi’s car rattle into the driveway on the other side of the house. I can’t believe that she drove that thing cross country.
“Beat me to it,” she says as she comes down the side path. She’s got bags, bags, and more bags. Shopping.
“Just got in. Whatcha get?”
“This stuff? Some clothes. A few things for our... for the pool house. And I found a few knick-knacks for your house, too.”
“Can I see?” She juggles a few things and hands me two of the bags in her hands. They’re heavy.
“They had some very nice wrought iron, and I thought that this lamp would be good in the den, over on the table by that chair? It’s a nice reading lamp. And a throw that’s a better color. And I found some new sheets for your bed, and some candles.” She reels off the items while I’m peeking at them. “So many sales, I couldn’t resist the bargains.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have....”
“I know,” she says.
“What’s this, CD’s?” I dig into one bag and pull out a few jewel cases.
“Oh, those are mine.” She puts out her hand. I go to pass them to her, and notice the covers. Then I take them back.
“No, I think these are mine,” I tell her. They sure are. I recognize them. My picture’s on every one of them. Her hand reaches out and takes them back.
“No, they’re mine,” she says, and even in the murky light from the house, I can see her smile, how it twists up higher on one side of her mouth. We don’t say anything for a moment, and then she stuffs the CD’s into another bag and backs away, continues down the hill to the pool house. “’Night, Alex.”
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
