“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.”