Page 3 of A Hidden Past

Think of the dirtiest, grimiest restaurant you’ve ever seen. I’m talking the kind of place the roaches won’t even go. Leo’s is somehow worse than that. A place has to get pretty bad for pizza to be unappetizing, but Leo’s reaches that point.

They’re cheap, though. And they have an alcohol license. And they don’t ask questions when a clearly underage kid buys liquor and pays with cash.

I smile at Mom. “I’m good. Thank you, though.”

She looks at me, and irritation flashes across her face. This is the little game we play. She knows that she’s only asking because she wants me to buy her more booze. She knows that I know that, and that I’m being difficult right now because I’m forcing her to admit that.

And I know that eventually, I’m going to give in and go get her the damned booze because it’s easier than fighting a battle we both lost ten years ago.

“Well, I haven’t eaten yet,” she says. “You think you could use some of the money you got from your prestigious job to go get your mother something to eat?”

“I haven’t gotten paid yet,” I tell her. “My first paycheck won’t be until next Friday.”

Her lips twitch, and I have to admit to a perverse satisfaction at seeing her backed into a corner. I’ll pay for it later, but now that I’m bigger than her, I’ll only pay for it verbally and only until I decide to walk away.

“You have some money left from your last job, though, right?”

“I do.”

“So can you buy me some dinner? Is that all right? Is it too much trouble?”

She grows louder as she speaks, infuriated that I’ve made her admit, even in this small way, how pathetic she is.

“Sure,” I say. “Just let me shower first.”

She reddens and says, “You can’t wait fifteen minutes? You ate already.”

“That’s true,” I say.

Then I open the bathroom and step inside. She turns the shade of an overripe tomato and opens her mouth to shout, but I close the door on her. She’s far gone, but not far gone enough that she’s going to barge into the bathroom and risk seeing her son naked.

As I shower, I think back to when it was good. Back when my father still lived here. Back when my mother was happy. Back when I was happy.

Back when Annie was still alive.

There are days when I’m grateful to have the good memories, days where I can look fondly back on moments where life didn’t seem so horrible.

Then there are days when I hate that I wasn’t younger when she died so I wouldn’t have to think about how much worse everything is now that she’s gone. Today is one of those days.

I take my time in the shower, not because I need to but because I want to make my mother wait as long as possible for her booze. Silly me. When I walk into the living room dressed and ready to go, she’s halfway into a bottle of vodka.

She looks me up and down, then says smugly, “Wanted beer, but you needed to shower first.”

I don’t say anything. I just chuckle bitterly, then walk outside to get the pizza.

CHAPTER TWO

Day two is hotter than day one. The temperature gauge on the dash of the work van says ninety-five. It feels about ten degrees hotter than that.

I sigh and step out of the van to start work on the next house on my list. The client today is Vivian Chase. I don’t really know why it matters that I know their names, but Best Pool Cleaners is insistent that I do. They want me to smile and show excellent customer service. That would make sense if our clients were middle-class people who desperately needed working-class people to defer to them so they could feel superior, but to the people of Laurel Heights, I’m not even a person. I’m a servant. The thought that I would do anything but defer to them never even crosses their minds. Do you have to ask a car if it’s going to defer to you? No, you just drive it.

I laugh at that. I doubt anyone here drives their own cars. Anyway, whether the clients appreciate my attempts at politeness or ignore it, that’s what my employer expects, and since I need this job, and it’s one of the few jobs that fits my needs, I put a smile on my face and knock on the door with enthusiasm.

The door opens, and my enthusiasm changes to something else.

Vivian Chase is nothing like I expect her to be.

I have an image of the women in this neighborhood and others like it of all being in their forties and fifties with bad plastic surgery, fake tans and attitudes ranging from overly promiscuous to haughty and perpetually disgusted. I figure they’re all the worst version of the California bleach blonde stereotype.

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