Free Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard Page B

gonna help you none to have the brand or model number. Toilet lids come in different shapes, colors and sizes, so you’re just gonna have to go down to that plumbing place. I’m not even sure how the house passed inspection with those big old toilets that take ten gallons to flush.”
    I know how those big old toilets passed inspection. Esther took them out and had them replaced, then put them right back in after escrow closed. Esther likes those big old toilets and her goal was to keep them even if they were environmentally unsound. I thank Dwayne, get out of the truck and close the gate to my backyard.
    â€œPick up, Mom, it’s me,” I say into her answering machine. “I know we’re supposed to come there on Christmas Eve, but I have to bring Blaise up tonight.”
    She picks up her phone. “What did he do?”
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œWhat did he do, Cornelia?”
    I give her a sanitized G-rated version of the day. “If I don’t get my work done, Mom, we won’t even be there on the twenty-fourth. Please, I need your help.”
    I hang up the phone and exhale. Blaise sits at our piano and bangs out the beginning notes to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
    â€œGrandma says you can spend the next week up there with the understanding that for your punishment there will be no television, no computer and no Game Boy. You’re going to help her clean out the garage, clean up the yard and put up the decorations. And if you so much as get close to a match, she’ll kill you and me. Understand?”
    Blaise nods.
    â€œAll right, go pack some books and I’ll get your clothes. I’m taking you now.”
    â€œNow? Mom, it’s Thursday night! You said you desperately need sleep and that you’ve got to work in the morning.”
    â€œI do, but I can sleep and work a lot better knowing you’re safe with Grandma rather than lighting someone’s house on fire.”
    â€œGod, Mom, it’s like you’re desperate to get rid of me,” Blaise says, sulking.
    â€œBlaise, I have to work. I don’t want to live at a bus stop. We need a roof over our heads—”
    â€œBlah, blah, blah,” Blaise interrupts. “That’s always your excuse. I don’t care where we live.”
    â€œWell, there’s a nice covered bus stop down on the corner. Want to try it out for the night?” I bite my lip and regret saying it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. “Blaise, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been very busy, but if I don’t work, we don’t have money. And living here or anywhere costs.”
    â€œWhatever.” He goes to his room and plops some books on his desk. “I’m ready.”
    I drive the 179 miles north to Visalia, in the heart of California’s San Joaquin Valley, drop Blaise off, then turn around and head back to Los Angeles. I usually can’t drive late at night, but being fueled with guilt and worry keeps me awake. Home at two o’clock in the morning, I fall asleep in my clothes.
    Â· · ·
    Six hours later, barely able to keep my eyes open, I break at least thirty traffic laws to get the twenty miles down Sunset Boulevard, toward the beach, before nine A.M . As the higher-paid working stiffs are driving toward their offices in Century City and Hollywood, I fly past them going in the opposite direction, clutching my Starbucks double espresso.
    I pull past Shelly’s old Mercedes parked on the street, into Liam and Esther’s driveway, grab my cardboard and pencil and disgorge from Betty unsteadily as I try to dance over thick lines of black ants covering the driveway.
    Esther can’t see why I would suggest an exterminator visit when ants are just a part of nature. She calls me a “human supremacist” who thinks ants have no souls. Since she won’t let there be any bug spray in her home, I get out the countertop cleaner and spray them all I want when