Patricia sits at the breakfast table with Randall, poking at Rosa’s attempt at an egg-white omelet as her husband rambles on about their plans. Oh, how she misses the food at the lodge.
She absentmindedly rubs the top of her arm, hating that she’s going to have another scar to rival the clumsy one from the smallpox vaccine when she was a little girl. Randall’s longtime physician, Dr. Baird, showed up at the house a few days ago to administer the vaccine for the Violence—they chartered a jet from Utah to get it as soon as possible. Patricia knows she should be grateful that Randall is so wealthy and well connected that they were able to receive the vaccination before the rest of the world even knew about it, but…well, honestly. A scar. And the ID card with her vaccine number printed on it has absolutely the worst photo of her she’s ever seen. She looks like she’s seventy and has jaundice in it.
“Are you even listening, Patricia?” Randall asks, sounding like a schoolteacher with a wayward and annoying student.
“You were saying we’ll have Rosa vaccinated,” she parrots.
Randall nods and squints, his jowls waggling and his belly dangling between his knees as he leans over. No one loves a breakfast steak like the judge, even if it’s been clumsily cooked to leather.
“That’s right. Only way to keep the help around without getting attacked. We pay for her vaccination, and in return she signs an ironclad contract committing her to ten years of service. With Miguel infected and sent off to wherever, she’ll jump at the chance.” He smiles fondly at her. “You did good, sugar, calling the hotline when you did and getting him off the property.”
Patricia smiles tightly and nods. Making the call was a lot easier than watching Rosa afterward, crying on the ground and muttering in Spanish and beating her fist on the perfectly cut grass. She’d hoped Rosa would come to terms with her loss and cheer up while they were gone, but instead she’s been in an even deeper sulk since they returned, which is preposterous—while they were in Utah, she had so little to do. And when Randall flew back and forth for work, he stayed at the hotel downtown by the courthouse, so it’s not like Rosa had to take care of him. But now, even her food tastes sad. The omelet is inedible. Patricia pushes it away and focuses on her bowl of fresh berries. One of the raspberries slips off her fork and falls to the shelf of her cleavage. She fusses with it, her mind elsewhere, and ends up with a bright-red streak of berry juice across her white silk shell.
Randall watches her, one eyebrow up. He’s not a handsome man, and he’s been steadily gaining weight the whole time they’ve been married, but he could be called distinguished in the right light and he’s surprisingly fastidious about his wardrobe and toilette. Fifteen years older than her and richer than God, with fingers in every pie downtown and friends tucked away in every position of power, he’s a man so well known that all she has to do is mention the judge and she gets whatever she wants, from tables at the best restaurants with complimentary champagne to a policeman’s tipped cap as she drives away from what would’ve been a speeding ticket. Being married to Randall makes everything easy.
Well, everything except living with him.
“And I’m the one who will deliver this news to Rosa?” she asks as she inspects the stain.
“Of course. You handle the help. That’s your job. And I’ll handle my job.” He leans over and dabs at her bosom with his napkin, fussy and in no way sexual. He’s never come to her for such things; that’s what secretaries are for. “Sugar, that’s gonna stain. You should be more careful with silk.”
He gets up for more coffee, and Patricia’s rouged cheeks flush hot. She remembers another stain, bright red against stark white, another time she was told to be more careful. She didn’t know what it was at the time, didn’t even know it had happened. She was getting ready for church on Easter morning as a girl, and the tiny rented millhouse was already hot for spring, and her mother called her over and made her spin around to check that she looked good enough for the upcoming service.
“What the hell is that?” Mama barked, skinny hands on her hips in a plaid dress she’d found at the thrift store in the nicer next town over.
Patricia—Patty back then—had no idea what she’d done wrong but was already shrinking into herself. It was better when Mama didn’t notice her at all.
“I don’t know.” She looked back over her shoulder but didn’t see anything, and when Mama marched her over to the long, cracked mirror, she saw the red splotch on the back of her special dress, the one they’d bought new since she was in the Easter pageant. “Did I sit on something?”
She did feel a bit sweaty down there, but that was nothing new, as they had no air-conditioning and the day was already in the eighties with all the windows closed. She tried to think of what she could’ve sat on that was that color, but there was nothing in the house, not even ketchup, and—oh Lord.
“Is that blood? Am I dying?”
She hurried to the house’s only bathroom, closed the door and pulled down her underwear, and found yet more blood, everywhere, everywhere, starting to dribble down her legs. She dabbed at herself, but that was bloody, too.
“Mama, I’m dying!” she shrieked through the door.
“You’re not dying, stupid. It’s your monthly.”
“My monthly what?”
Because no one had ever told Patty about menstruation, had they? There she was, crying in the nicest dress she’d ever owned, now ruined, and she thought she must be dying, her blood leaking out of her like she’d been stabbed.
“It’ll happen once a month until you get knocked up. If it stops, you’re knocked up. Don’t you get knocked up, Patty! Only bad girls do that. Now take off that dress and put on this one and let’s go. You got to be more careful.”
Patty had so many questions, but Mama was always in a bad mood, and this one was worse than usual. She couldn’t get the dress off without help, so she opened the door and turned her back. Mama’s quick fingers undid the fake-pearl buttons, and Patty kept her back to her mother as she slipped off the ruined dress. Mama took it and shoved an old tweed sheath dress and a new pair of underwear through the door.
“There’s rags under the sink. Fold one into thirds and put it in your pants,” Mama said. “Goddammit. Ruined this dress. Do you know what it cost?”
“Yes,” she’d murmured under her breath as she followed Mama’s directions and emerged looking frumpy and rumpled in the itchy, heavy dress that was made for an older, taller, curvier woman, waddling with her legs clenched together as she tried to get used to the bulge of cloth. “What about the Easter pageant?”
Mama looked at her, disgusted, the cigarette dangling from her dry lips. “Pageant’s for little girls, and you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re a woman now, full of sin. So you’ll just sit in back and don’t mess up that dress, too.” Then she leaned close and poked a bony finger into Patty’s chest to punctuate her words. “A woman, so you’d better get used to it. No more playing around. Don’t be a whore, or I’ll kick you out.” She leaned even closer. “And don’t you dare start looking at my dates. Just keep your goddamn mouth shut and do what you’re told.”
Everything had changed that day because of one unexpected stain. Patty had not, in fact, been a whore, but she had taken Mama’s words to heart. She’d kept her goddamn mouth shut, she’d done what she was told, and she’d been fine, right up until four years later when the preacher’s son told her to do something else she didn’t expect, something else she didn’t really understand, and that knocked her up. Even then, she kept her mouth shut. Because that was what good girls did.
“Did you hear me, Patricia?”
She looks up. Randall is staring at her, and she shakes her head and smiles at him. “Lost in fond memories, I’m afraid. Remember that lovely little hotel in Paris?”
“Yes, sugar, but I was talking about Iceland,” he says with cloying patience. “Got to get away from all these fools and skeeters in the hot weather. Just because we’re vaccinated doesn’t mean they are, and Utah’s warming up. Paris is, too. Now that court’s all virtual again, we’re free to head on out. We leave next week. All the boys are going. And their wives,” he adds, almost an afterthought. “I’ll have Diane email you a shopping list. Coats and all that. Probably best to do it online. If Rosa signs, she’ll stay here and hold down the fort, like usual.”
“And if she doesn’t sign?”
He lifts one meaty shoulder. “Can’t make her do it, I reckon. But she knows we’ve got her over a barrel. Undocumented, all that unfortunate mess. There’ll be plenty of people willing to sign papers to get that vaccine. Can’t believe they found a loophole to keep it privately owned so they can charge so damn much. I’ve been working up all sorts of contracts, you know—for companies willing to offer vaccines in return for service. Folks are gonna be desperate for it, for themselves and their kids. Vaccine’s thirty thousand dollars right now. Most folks these days have never seen that much money in one go. Idiots.”
Patricia huffs a little sigh, remembering a time when she’d never seen that much money in one go, never bought groceries without running the numbers in her head and putting something back after the cashier had rung it up. By the time she met Randall, she’d dropped Patty like a cicada shell and become the far more vibrant Patricia, and he doesn’t know about that part of her past. They’ve simply never discussed it. They’re not actually that interested in each other as people, but they both need something the other can provide. She makes his life beautiful and easy and respectable, and he provides the money for her to make that happen. And she also looks away when he hires, fires, and woos endless young brunette secretaries, like twenty-two-year-old Diane, who’ll be sending an email later with an annoying and somehow knowing smiley face at the end of it.
Randall places a folder on the breakfast table, points to the signature tab with one fat finger. “It’s all marked where she needs to sign.”
It looks a lot like the endless, ironclad prenup she had to sign herself, but she nods amicably. “Of course, Randall. I’ll take care of it.”
He pats her on the head like a dog. “Good girl. You got the flowers, didn’t you?”
He sends her so many bouquets that she forgets which one is in which room.
Oh yes. The sunny-yellow tulips in the powder room.
“Yes. So cheerful. So thoughtful.”
“Sugar, I’m sure you understand I’ll be more busy than usual, once we get to Iceland. The world is changing around us, and the law itself is having to change with it. Damn inconvenience, this Violence business.”
A damn inconvenience.
That’s the same phrase he uses when the neighbors’ gardener uses a leaf blower before noon on a Sunday. She smiles up at him and nods agreement, feeling like one of those stupid dolls Brooklyn wanted for Christmas, a plastic thing that blinks and talks and wets itself and, thanks to technology, takes basic orders. Stand up. Sit down. Say mama.
As if any child ever were that biddable. Chelsea certainly wasn’t, and her older granddaughter is following in those same rebellious footsteps. Brooklyn, at least, is reasonable and does exactly what she’s told.
“Have a good day, sweetheart,” she calls as he waddles out the door.
“You have a good day, too, sugar. Stop dabbing at that stain and just order yourself a new blouse.”
There is no discussion of love or even fondness. There never has been. It’s probably better this way.
As soon as Randall’s car is gone and the garage door closed, Patricia changes her blouse and picks up the contract he left on the table. As she walks out to the pool house, she notices the yard isn’t quite as nice as usual; Miguel may take his time, but he’s very thorough, whereas his son, Oscar, does things quick and sloppy. The boy isn’t here now, at least. Every time he’s seen Patricia since Miguel was taken away, the boy has glared daggers at her and muttered in Spanish under his breath.
Their backyard is large and beautiful, but it’s noisier than it used to be. The mosquito trucks seem to run day and night, and drones buzz erratically overhead as they deliver prescriptions and light sundries. That’s one of the benefits of being wealthy and living in an enclave like this during such a dangerous time—very few strangers can get past the gate, and the rules around deliveries now are stricter than ever.
She gives Rosa the courtesy of knocking on the door of her own pool house and hears movement within. She doesn’t often come out here, preferring to give the help their own space, but it seems like a gesture of trust, meeting Rosa on her own ground instead of commanding her to appear in the big house via text.
“Mrs. Lane?” Rosa blinks in the bright light, her tight bun coming undone. Once husky, she now looks gaunt and gray, her polo shirt hanging off her shoulders.
“Might we speak? I have an exciting offer for you.”
Rosa nods and steps outside, closing the door behind her. Patricia caught the quickest glance inside, and the space is torn apart and messy, completely unacceptable. But now is not the time to mention it.
“Judge Lane has drawn up a contract for you.” Patricia hands Rosa the papers, noting the woman’s ragged nails and torn cuticles. “There’s a vaccination for the Violence, and we’d like to provide it for you.”
English is not Rosa’s first language, but she’s competent enough. Her brow draws down as she flips through the contract, touching a line here and there with a fingertip.
“What about Miguel?”
“That’s out of our purview, I’m afraid. We were able to shelter him here as long as no one knew, but we can’t get him back, not with the courts like they are now.”
Rosa clears her throat and points at the contract. “Servitude for a period of ten years, and then you will consider helping me become a citizen?”
Patricia peeks over Rosa’s shoulder. She didn’t see that part.
“Yes. The judge will do everything he can—”
“He told us that five years ago, and he has done nothing.”
Rosa goes quiet, and Patricia can feel her rage, building like thunder.
So this is why Randall gave her this job. Because it’s not a pleasant one when the contract isn’t fair.
Patricia knows what it feels like, signing one of Randall’s contracts.
“Well, if you sign here, you’ll have it in writing—”
“Mrs. Lane, consider is not worth signing my life over. I will sign only if you change it. Five years, and you will sponsor me for citizenship. Miguel, too, if he returns.”
“You know I don’t have that power, Rosa,” Patricia says, softening her voice. “But I can guarantee you employment and protect you from this horrible illness—”
“No, Mrs. Lane. No. This contract does not employ me. It is slavery. There is no mention of payment. What is the cost of this vaccination?”
Patricia steps back a little. “Around thirty thousand dollars.”
“Ten years. For thirty thousand dollars. That is three thousand dollars a year, Mrs. Lane. And that is no life. What about sick days? Vacation? Food? Clothes?”
“It says uniforms and basic necessities will be provided…”
Rosa roughly closes the folder and hands it back to her. “Slavery,” she hisses. “I know you think I am stupid, but I am not that stupid. No, thank you.”
Much to Patricia’s surprise, Rosa goes into the pool house—Patricia’s own pool house!—and slams the door in her face.
All the way back into the big house, she isn’t sure how to feel. Fury with Rosa at her ingratitude or fury at Randall for asking her to deliver papers that apparently offer little more than modern-day slavery.
Most of all, she’s angry at herself. She has failed them both.