“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.”