Santa Monica Read online

  Regina had been the first to give Lettie work in Santa Monica. It was Regina who first noticed the bruises circling Lettie’s upper arms; who had, in the middle of a spring night last year, answered Lettie’s frantic call, picked up Lettie and Andres in her big fancy car, their belongings stuffed in black trash bags, and driven them to a motel, later insisting on loaning Lettie the money for a security deposit—all so she and Andres could leave Manuel and his cruel hands.

  Lettie had yet to pay her back.

  “Where is Lettie?” Regina called, and Lettie rushed across the yard to the patio, where her boss stood beside Zacarias.

  “I am here,” she said, tapping Regina’s shoulder, panting a little from her short jog.

  “Oh, thank God!” Regina said. “Can you help with all this? Clear everything away and fold down the table?” She motioned to the mess of lipstick-stained champagne glasses, protein bar wrappers, paper drink umbrellas, and orange rinds strewn across the tables Lettie had set up so carefully just hours ago.

  “Yes, of course,” said Lettie, reaching for a tray.

  “Thanks for your assistance,” Zacarias said to her, in the stiff, polite way Lettie knew was meant to suggest he’d never laid eyes on her in his life.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” said Regina. “Zack, this is Lettie. She’s been helping me for years.”

  Helping, thought Lettie, as if bleaching toilet bowls was something she just happened to enjoy.

  “Much appreciated.” Her half-brother reached out a hand to Lettie. “I’m Zack.”

  Lettie stared at him. No way was she shaking his hand. They had agreed they would not even speak to each other out in the real world. The white world. His world.

  “Lettie!” Regina exclaimed, closing her hand around Lettie’s forearm. “What’s up with you?” Then, to Zacarias, “She’s really quite friendly, I swear.”

  “I’ve been known to make some women, well, speechless,” Zack said. He winked at Lettie. That dirty rooster, Lettie imagined her abuela would say. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

  “Yes?” Lettie said, shifting into the I-don’t-know-or-understand mode she used often in America, where it was safer to play dumb.

  “Sure,” Zack said. “Ah, I know, at the gym!” Maybe, Lettie thought, her brother wasn’t as rotten an actor as she’d guessed. “Color Theory. You clean there.”

  “Yes,” Lettie said when what she wanted to say was No shit. She wasn’t at the gym to exercise. “I’m sorry. Bad memory.”

  “No worries.” He flashed a smile.

  Lettie knew his American parents must’ve spent a fortune on his teeth.

  “Lettie’s an absolute godsend,” Regina went on. “This event could not have happened without her.”

  “I’m sure,” Zacarias said. “But you masterminded the whole thing, Reg. And it was killer.” He slid Regina a wink. As if, Lettie thought, he was an old-fashioned movie star—the hero in one of the westerns Manuel had watched on Saturdays before he stood in line on Colorado Avenue, hoping to be picked for garden work in the Valley, Orange County, places Lettie knew by name but had never visited. Now, with the ICE raids, she was more scared than ever to leave Santa Monica.

  “No, no,” Regina said, slapping at Zacarias’s muscled chest, letting her hand rest there. “It was teamwork.” She drew an invisible triangle between the three of them.

  “If you can excuse me,” said Lettie, “I’ll do the table now.”

  “Thanks!” Regina said, and she and Zack returned to their chatter, so rapid Lettie could not make sense of it. She was invisible again, magically making messes disappear while the women relaxed in the sunny yard and nibbled little balls made of egg white and broccoli that Lettie had shaped with Regina at dawn that morning. As she cleared glasses and gathered soiled napkins for the trash, a new, biting anger at Zacarias seeped through her body. Why had he gone on in front of Regina about having recognized Lettie—was it some sort of joke? Later, would he claim they’d played the women like a herd of stupid cows—as if they’d been in it together?

  She knew he was not to be trusted. And yet, she needed him: his money he gave her in drips and drops, never enough; and his love for Andres, which was so fierce she had to hope he would protect her son—if she was sent back to Mexico.

  She folded up the newly stained tablecloth she’d steamed to perfection just hours before. Then she arranged the dirty champagne glasses onto two big trays.

  When Zacarias had shown up in her Facebook messages, claiming to be her brother, asking to meet (Family is family!) she’d been sure it was a scam. She used the website only once every few months, to spy on ex-boyfriends and to check in on her mother, who posted fat-filled recipes and inappropriate joke photos, most involving short mustachioed men and big-breasted women. She’d opened a few suspicious messages from men, most in military uniform, asking How are you, gorgeous? And Want to chat? Not that she’d ever; especially now that she feared every strange man—the UPS driver, a new neighbor—was an immigration agent working undercover.

  She had remained cautious, cold, in their first Facebook chats, even as her dropped-from-the-heavens brother’s excitement had ballooned and he seemed more like a child waiting for Christmas gifts than a grown man begging her to meet in person.

  She’d given in. Reluctantly sending him the address of the studio apartment she shared with Andres—Manuel having taken off weeks earlier after a fight that had ended with her on her knees, begging him to stop, fearing the neighbors would call the police. Deportation, she’d gurgled through a bloody lip. Andres. Both she and Manuel had uncles and cousins who’d been deported after arrests for domestic abuse.

  When Zacarias had arrived at her front door, all doubts about their relationship flew away: he had her mother’s angular face (much better on a man), all straight, clean lines, and Gloria’s thick brown curls. Lettie had been embarrassed at the swell of pride she’d felt—she, a nobody with a plain brown face and thick body, was the sister of a man as handsome as one of the superheroes in the movies Andres loved.

  Soon after, when she and her brother discovered they both worked for rich white people in Santa Monica, perhaps some of the same people (though only his job existed in the eyes of the law), Zacarias had said to Lettie, with little Andres snuggled in his lap, “It’s probably best if we keep this situation on the down-low, then, yeah? Santa Monica’s basically a small town.”

  She’d had to ask him what down-low meant.

  His explanation stung. She didn’t understand why he needed to keep her a secret—making her promise that, if they bumped into each other in public, they’d pretend not to know each other. Never mind that they were related by blood. And after the fuss he’d made about meeting Lettie. But he had seemed to think the agreement was important to their safety, or their incomes, or something—Lettie was not sure. Maybe it had to do with el presidente Trump? Or her brown skin?

  “Let me help you, senorita,” said Zacarias, appearing beside Lettie and lifting a half-empty tray of champagne glasses. He angled an elbow toward Melissa’s big house. “Lead the way to the kitchen.”

  “I don’t need help, but thank you,” Lettie said politely. With so many of her bosses near, it was best to be on good behavior. She shouldn’t have let her anger at Zacarias show, as she had in front of Regina. But it was like he was trying to poke her, test her, with that stupid comment about “recognizing” her from the gym.

  That was Zacarias: always playing, always winding people around his finger. He did it to these ladies in the yard all the time, Lettie thought; they just didn’t know it. He was never really on anyone’s side but his own.

  “Lead the way,” her brother said again, his voice tight. Lettie understood he was giving an order. She had no choice. Saying no to Zacarias meant risking saying no to his money.

  He stood holding the tray, muscles poking from his arms, staring down at her. The late-morning sun glowed around him like a stage light. Lettie noticed the blackberries floating in the brownish
liquid at the bottom of the glasses; she’d taken extra care that morning, at Regina’s instruction, to wash them with special fruit soap.

  “Follow me,” she said to Zacarias, and stepped toward the house.

  “Wait, wait, wait!”

  Lettie turned to see Melissa hurrying over—it was the fastest Lettie had seen her favorite boss move—and, then, Melissa tried to tug the tray from Zacarias’s hands.

  “Put that down, Zack! You’re the guest of honor. Leticia can take care of cleanup.”

  Lettie tried not to feel offended by her favorite boss’s suggestion. Or by how cheerful Melissa’s voice sounded when she spoke to Lettie’s idiot brother, like a little girl who’d just gotten a new toy.

  “Didn’t mean to break the rules,” Zacarias said to Melissa, his voice back to warm honey. “I was raised to never let a lady carry something heavy.”

  “Leticia is a badass woman,” Melissa said. “She can handle it. Don’t insult her.”

  “I can see that,” said Zacarias, a grin spreading over his face as he handed the platter to Lettie.

  She could have sworn she hadn’t meant to grab the platter and jerk it so the glasses toppled over, clattering together like chimes. Her arms seemed to move on their own.

  Zacarias’s pretty red-lipped mouth dropped open in shock as smelly brown liquid splashed over his tight shirt, soaking, Lettie hoped, right through to the skin of his hard belly.

  “I am sorry, sir!” She forced herself to sound sorry. “My big apologies!”

  “Oh no!” said Melissa, grabbing a towel and dabbing at Zack’s wet shirt.

  “Watch it, I’m ticklish,” he said, stepping away.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Lettie repeated as Melissa swiped at Zacarias again and they both fell into laughter like dumb teenagers.

  Do not fall for it, Miss Melissa, Lettie thought. Her favorite boss was much too good for her no-good whore of a brother.

  “Come.” Lettie had had enough of her half-brother for one day. She reached for his thick arm and gripped it hard, so he knew she meant business. He stopped laughing. “I take Senor Zack to the bathroom so he can clean up. And Miss Melissa can enjoy the rest of the party.”

  “Um, okay,” Melissa said, sounding disappointed. “Thanks, Leticia!”

  Lettie steered Zack through Mel’s house to the kitchen, where the sink was lined with the hand-painted marigold tiles Melissa had been so excited to show Lettie (Made in your beautiful Mexico!), and where they were too far from the yard for anyone to hear.

  “What’s up, Leticia?” Zacarias leaned back on the counter.

  “Why you make fun of me, Zack?” She spat his American name.

  “What are you talking about? What’d I do?” He blinked fast, again and again, his green eyes flashing like a desert lizard.

  “Stop that stupid wink-winking!”

  “Enlighten me then. What’s with the raging?”

  “Pretending you know me from the gym! In front of Miss Regina. You think that’s funny? You think I’m stupid?”

  “How can you be so dense? The less these people”—he jerked his thumb toward the backyard—“know about us, the better. I was being smart, actually. Protecting us. You’re the one who’s happy to jeopardize everything we’ve built by acting rude and defiant right in front of these women.”

  He used big words when they fought, not caring if she could not understand. Trapping her in that in-between place of knowing and not knowing. Powerless.

  “Built! Built what? I have nothing. Just a little bit of the money you promised. You swore on our ancestors’ graves, hermano.”

  “Lettie.” He raised a hand. Always trying to silence her. “You promised you’d be calm. ’Member when we talked about playing it cool? Keeping it on the down-low? That’s all I’m asking here.”

  Always speaking to her like she was the child.

  “I’ll play it cool when you make good on your promises. When you give me the money.”

  “I’m giving you money, Lettie.” His voice quieted and she heard shame inside it. “Almost every week. I’m trying. The gym doesn’t pay big bucks, in case you’re not aware.”

  “There are always other ways. Try harder. I have hospital bills up to here.” Lettie raised her palm to her forehead. “If I don’t pay, I get deported. Period.” She made a slicing motion at her neck. “And then Andres has nothing.”

  Her brother’s face softened at the mention of Andres, just as she’d known it would. This was the only part of her brother she could trust. His love for her son.

  “When I am not safe, Andres is not safe. You get it?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  “You take care of it, and then I’ll play it cool.”

  “Do you think I want to be here, doing this dog-and-pony show for a bunch of rich ladies already fitter than Jillian Michaels? Do you realize I’m here sweating my ass off today for you?”

  “Jillian who?”

  “You’re clueless,” he mumbled, rolling his blue-green eyes all the ladies loved.

  “And you are a player.” She might not know English as well as him, might not understand all his big words, but she knew this expression was perfect for him. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Play with your rich ladies all you like. But do not play with me, Zacarias.”

  He slammed a fist on the marble counter. The tray of empty glasses shuddered. It was too easy. One word—his birth name—and he transformed into el ogre from a fairy tale. It felt good to make him lose control. He was nothing more than a spoiled brat.

  “I told you. Do not call me that.”

  “Oh, I so sorry, Senor Zack. Senor Americano.” She fluttered her lashes, raised her hands in an I don’t speak English apology. “You are so smart. So wise. I am just a stupid illegal.”

  He cut her off. His voice dangerous. Like Andres’s father, Manuel, before he attacked. “Stop it, Lettie. Right now.”

  He reached for her arm—he was always touching, squeezing, pushing, it didn’t matter if it was her or one of the rich ladies, if there was a woman nearby, Zacarias’s hands were on her body. Lettie pulled back. Her elbow knocked into a glass. It shattered on the polished wood floor and Lettie was certain it was over, she was finished, she would open the tall oak front doors of Miss Melissa’s house and find ICE in combat gear ready to take her away. No good-bye hug for Andres. No last inhale of his peanut-butter-and-jelly little-boy scent.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not sure what she was apologizing for now. Something much bigger than a broken glass.

  “You’re freaking me out, Lettie.” Zacarias was on his knees, picking up pieces of glass with his fingers. “Ow, shit!” A bead of blood rose on his thumb. “Look,” he sighed. “I’m doing the best I can. All you have to do is play it cool, like we discussed. Got it?”

  “Play it cool,” she repeated, looking down at him on his knees. She knew it was her place to pick up the glass but she was frozen, her back pushed against the marble counter.

  “What’s going on in here? Did something break?”

  Melissa stood in the arched doorway of the kitchen.

  “I break a glass,” Lettie said. “I have bad day. Too many mistakes. So sorry, Miss Melissa.”

  “Just,” Melissa sighed, “just go outside and see if anyone wants another drink. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Lettie said, her head ducked as she exited the kitchen, fighting the urge to lift her middle finger at her brother.

  She stopped in the hallway and listened.

  Lettie heard Mel say, “I’m so sorry, Zack. I mean . . . she has had a super-tough life. Her little son, the poor guy, has a serious disability.”

  Lettie’s chest tightened. This was the truth but, still, she hated the pity soaking Melissa’s voice.

  Melissa continued, “And just imagine what life is like now, for women like her, with you-know-who in the Oval Office.”

  Zacarias cut Melissa off, his voice suddenly cold. Just as it had been when Lettie
called him by his birth name.

  “Maybe she’s fine,” he said. “You shouldn’t assume you know what her life is like.”

  Lettie felt a tingling anticipation—Melissa was about to give him hell.

  Instead, her boss’s voice was gentle. Respectful.

  “I appreciate you calling me out like that, Zack,” Melissa said. “You’re right. Thanks for teaching me something. I have the tendency to, well, overgeneralize.”

  Melissa did not sound like herself. Or at least not like the woman Lettie had spent hours talking with (mostly listening—Melissa loved to talk-talk-talk, just like Lettie and Zacarias’s mother, Gloria) every Wednesday as Lettie cleaned the Goldberg home. How could Lettie have been so stupid to think a rich white woman could be a friend?

  “It’s all good,” Zacarias said. “No worries.” Lettie heard the wink-wink in his voice when he said, “But I’m guessing you probably hate those SoCal phrases.”

  Melissa giggled, girlish.

  “I have a confession,” Zacarias whispered. A lover’s voice, Lettie thought. “I hate them, too.”

  “Well, then,” Melissa said, “I guess we have something in common after all, don’t we?”

  As much as Lettie wanted to believe Melissa could be trusted (hadn’t she called Lettie her beautiful Mexican sister once?), and believe all her bosses needed her, she knew she could never speak to them like Zacarias just had.

  Lettie kept her spot in these women’s lives by never saying no. She made every accommodation they asked. Used special cleaning supplies—a bottle of vinegar and nothing else so her hands smelled like salad dressing for days. She cooked vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, all organic. She kept their secrets, even when one employer asked about another in a tone so sweet Lettie could tell they were fishing for gossip. She knew how easily these women could replace her with another desperate-to-please immigrant.

  Lettie headed outside to begin the cleanup, the sound of the women’s chatter a shrieking now that they were energized by their exercise.