working mom blues

My friend Ann is 27 years old and is not yet ready to get married. She says it is daunting to raise children these days. I agree. Most girls don't realize what mothers go through until they become mothers themselves.

I am a working mother. I have often envied those mothers who stay home and take care of their kids, the ones who know exactly why little Lisa hates the color yellow and can recite the names of all Lisa's 25 friends in kinder class. I am with my kid exactly 2 1/2 hours per day. I get up in the morning and her yaya has already prepared her for school; I get home at night and she's fed, washed up, and ready for bed. By the time I finish dinner she's already sleepy. For the rest of us who work, it's always a choice between raising the child ourselves and helping provide for the needs of the family. When my daughter asks me why I need to work every day, I tell her it's so we will have enough money for her food, clothes, and home. She goes to the mall on weekends and has a Barbie doll collection because her parents have good jobs.

My daughter's friends tell me that I'm always glamorous and their mothers are not. My daughter says it's because I go to the office, and the other mothers don't look so good because they stay home and take care of the kids. Very early on the children get this sense that when both parents work, their parents look good and the children enjoy more luxuries. Stay-at-home parents are less dignified. But you ask my kid if she's happy that she only sees me in the evening. You ask her if a dozen Barbie dolls is enough companionship in the afternoons after school.

And it goes beyond providing for the children. Every day you're faced with the realization that everything you do is shaping her personality and character. And every day you're put to the test: your patience, your judgement, your sense of what's right for her, your stand on discipline. You cannot reason out that you cannot play because you're dog-tired at the end of the day, because then your seven-year-old would ask if your job is more important than her. And you cannot buy new shoes on impulse because a little voice is telling you that the price of the shoes is equivalent to a can of baby's milk.

When tempers run short and I feel like throwing the girls out of the window, I think about how lovely it must be to be single, earning my own money, and living as I wish. I daydream about condo living, weekends at the beach, and writing. But you know what? It's tough, but I will not exchange my daughters for a life like that. It's worth every dragging second of my office-girl-life, to come home in the evening and smell a well-fed sleeping baby in my bed.

Even if the baby wakes up screaming at 2 a.m. because she does not recognize you.

the wish for a library

You know what I've always thought of when I daydreamed about having my own house? Having my own library. I will have my own little room with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, and no one can enter without knocking. The room will have soft piped-in music. It is where I will do my writing.

All the places I lived in had a little corner designated to display my books. In my grandmother's house, my three-hundred-or-so pocketbooks gather dust. They are the product of my high school and college years, when I would patiently raid the book sales (because I could not afford brand-new paperbacks) and I would grab a frayed and yellowed copy of Firestarter because I was dying to read all the books Stephen King wrote. That first library also display how my taste in books 'matured,' from the Mills and Boons, to the Readers Digest Condensed Books, to Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel, to John Grisham and Robert Ludlum. Surprisingly, I've had Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov and Gabriel Garcia Marquez even then.

When I went to college and had to live in a boarding-house, I kept piles of paperbacks under my bed because I didn't want my mother to find out that that's where my allowance goes. I sometimes went without lunch if I found a book I had particularly searched for.

When I got married and had to run a boarding house to keep ends meet, I kept a few of the books near the bed, handy for when I couldn't sleep. Some are in huge plastic boxes under the bed. The rest I would periodically send to my grandmother's house when there was no more space. Eventually my books sat side by side with my daughter's Little Golden Books and Winnie the Pooh stories.

We moved to a nicer, bigger house in Cavite three years ago, still renting, and I was in heaven. The master's bedroom had a corner-- no, a little room, that was perfect for my library. It even had an open shelf along the wall. That was when I started buying brand-new paperbacks. I read them once, then I displayed them. It felt good to have them because I could already afford to buy the new ones that would take years to get to the book sales.

Now we're moving again, this time to a house all our own. It is a tiny townhouse, and although I'm excited to have a house truly our own, my biggest disappointment is that I will not have a library. With two daughters to raise and barely enough space for the queen-size bed, somehow a library sounds superfluous. Again I thought of shipping my present collection to my grandmother's house.

But then, I'd be living in the townhouse until I grow old (unless I'll get myself a condo unit that I can fill with books!). Perhaps in a year or two, I'll convince my husband that we really need a third floor. I will outfit it with glassed-in shelves all around, and haul all my books from wherever they are scattered. I can hide there when I feel like screaming, or when the kids drive me crazy. Then I will lock the door, play me some The Corrs, and reeeeeaaaaaaddd.

little children

I finished the novel "Little Children" by Tom Perrotta the other day. It was the story of young parents in a suburb, all of them with little children. They meet in the playground, exchange notes on parenthood and the impossibility of raising kids, and they either make friends with each other or they secretly hate each other.

Sarah stays home and takes care of her problematic little Lucy. She is not exactly sure of what she wants from life, but she thought she had it easy until she discovered her husband hugging mail-order woman's underwear-- another woman's used underwear.

Mary Ann was some sort of a control freak that even her lovemaking nights with her husband are scheduled on Tuesdays.

Todd was a stay-at-home husband whose wife is a high-profile woman. He is quite handsome and is nicknamed the "Prom King" by the playground regulars. He has failed the bar exam twice but his wife still thinks it is the ticket to a better life.

Sarah and Todd strike a friendship that soon leads to an affair. They then plan to run away, leaving what they perceive as miserable family lives behind: Sarah's husband's fixation on online pornography and Todd's wife's too-high expectations.

All this is complicated by the return of a convicted child molester to town, and one ex-cop's almost obsessive hounding of the man.

It is not your ordinary love story. It is a very real tale of how marriages get broken for a host of little reasons that accumulate and become bigger than one can handle. It is about raising children, teaching them how to love, and loving them to distraction. It is about how, despite all the love in the world, things still go wrong between married couple.

I found it good reading because one can so easily relate to the characters. I am of the same age range as the young parents in the story; I have little children. The troubles that beset them are too common in the household. And in every page I could stop and wonder, What if it was me? What would I have done? It makes you re-think, in the deeper recesses of your heart, if all your right reasons for marrying your husband will remain true for the years to come. It makes you think about the many times your heart was broken by the ones you love most. It makes you think about the things you would give up, and the things you would do, in the name of love.

the guardian (1)

The cat sat there, its long black tail swishing lazily on the Persian rug. It watched as the little girl wound up the toy car and released it, sending it careening against the leg of the coffee table. The girl ran after the car, picked it up, sat down on the floor and wound it up again.

The girl squealed with glee when the toy car shot off again, running over the cat’s tail. The cat sprang up, now whipping its tail back and forth. Then with a little purr, it settled down again and seemed to grin indulgently.

After a while, the girl got bored. She kicked the toy car under the couch and ambled to where the cat lay. She scooped him up in her arms.

“Oof, you’re heavy,” she said. “Mom would have said you need a little exercise, Marshmallow.”

The cat flattened its ears a little. The Mistress had called him Duke. A grand, stately name for a grand, stately cat. But the Mistress is gone, and now he serves the Little Mistress who refuses to call him Duke. Although there was nothing marshmallowy in him—he was pure black from the tip of his pert ears to the end of his sore tail, with a temper to match—the name stuck. When her father complained, the girl patiently explained that he was the softest cat in the block, in the whole city perhaps, and it was actually an honor for him to be renamed Marshmallow, really.

Now they went upstairs, the girl becoming a little short of breath, cradling the cat a little too tightly in both arms. The cat did not wriggle, did not demand to be put down. They reached the door of her room. “Down, you heavy baby,” she said.

The girl pushed the door open, went in, and then held the door for the cat, who entered with his tail in the air.

She plopped down on the bed.

“I miss Mom, Marshmallow,” she said. And suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

The cat moved quickly. He rubbed himself against her, rumbling. He put his face under her chin, leaned against her chest, nosed her hands and legs. The girl did not cry in great gasping sobs. The tears just ran silently down her cheeks, with a hitched breath and a few sniffles. She looked older than her five years.

“I miss Mom,” she repeated, “why did she have to die?” The cat rumbled more loudly, twining himself around her.

“And I love her, and I miss her, and it hurts here.” The girl put one fist against her heart. The tears kept on falling, wetting the cat’s fur in spots.

The cat sat in front of the girl, watching her face with glittering green eyes.

“Who will take care of me now?” the girl asked plaintively. “Daddy says he loves me, but he goeas away everyday, and then there’s Miss Rose, but she leaves at night.”

Still the cat watched her.

“And then there’s you.” A pause. “Yeah, and you never leave.”

The sniffles tapered, then stopped.

“And you will take care of me, right, Marshmallow?” She gave a tentative watery smile. She held out her arms. The cat jumped right into them.

The father came about an hour later, and when he peeked in the girl’s room, she was sleeping peacefully. The cat sat at the foot of the bed, watching.

“Well, Marsh, don’t you think you could leave the princess and go chase birds or something?” The cat paraded past the man, his tail stiff with indignation, and went downstairs.

The father sat talking with Miss Rose, the part-time nursemaid.

“How is Christine these days?”

“Very quiet, and very sad.”

“Does she say anything about… ah, her mother?”

“She does not speak much. Sometimes she seems to forget herself and plays a little. Then she goes all gloomy and goes up to her room to cry.”

“I wish I could spend more time with her,” he sighed.

“You are doing the best you can,” she consoled. “You have your job, after all. And she seems to be coping very well.”

“You have no problems with her?”

“None. Well…”

“What?”

“The cat. I am only concerned about her health. He leaves fur all over her bed, her clothes. Sometimes she kisses him.” She gave a delicate little shudder.

“Oh. Him. They’re very close, that’s all. She feels he’s all she has left of her mother, and I don’t have the heart to separate them.” He smiled apologetically.

“Yes, they are very close. Maybe I just don’t like cats that much.” And he watches things too much, she didn’t add. He watches people too much, it sometimes feels creepy.

“Well, you are good to her,” said the father. “Thank you very much.”

“She will get over it. Give her a few months. Too bad she doesn’t have any grandparents, or cousins to play with.”

“Too bad,” he agreed.

the guardian (2)

Christine was outside, watching five or six of the neighborhood kids at play. The cat sat at her heels.

“Hey, look at the cat,” one of the kids said.

“I don’t want to look at no cat,” another said.

“Well, he’s Christine’s cat, and I bet he’s nice,” said a third. One by one the kids drifted to where Christine stood on the sidewalk.

“Is he black all over?” a girl with a missing front tooth asked.
Christine shook her head. “His tummy is all white.”
“I want to see,” said a bigger boy.
“I bet he doesn’t want you to. I bet he won’t let you pick him up,” a small boy in a too-big shirt piped in.
“Maybe not,” Big Boy allowed, “but I still want to see.”

“Don’t touch him,” Christine sai. “He’s mean.”
Big Boy squatted before the cat and poked a dirty finger in its ear. “Kitty, kitty, do you have any titty?”

Some of the kids giggled. The cat looked at the boy with flat green eyes.
“What an ugly cat,” the boy said. He straightened up. “Do you know what they say about ugly black cats?”

“He’s not ugly!” Christine said, hotly.

The boy ignored her. “Black cats are witches’ familiars.”

“What’s a familiar?” asked a girl. “An assistant,” Big Boy explained. “The witch sends it out to spy on people, and to bring back something that belongs to a person, say hair or nail clippings, that she can use to make spells. Like make all your hair fall out in a clump.”

“Ooh, scary.”

The boy now had an audience. “Does he go out at night, hey, girl?” he asked Christine. “Does he come back smelling all funny and looking all tired?”

“No,” said Christine. “No.”

“Where did he come from, Christine?” the gap-toothed girl asked.
“He is my mother’s cat.”
“Does that make your mother a witch?” the girl asked again.

“I heard her mother is strange. Talked to birds and sang to plants and all that,” the small boy said, plucking at his too-big shirt.
And she sang to me too, thought Christine. Now she could feel tears starting.

“My mother’s not a witch!” she cried.

“How would you know?” snickered Big Boy. “She’s not from around here. My mother says she likes to fool around with leaves and roots. If your mother’s a witch, then you’re a witch too.”

Christine was angry. “Take that back! My mother is a bot—botanist and I’m not a witch!”

The cat, unnoticed, was now standing alertly, its ears flat against its head, its eyes glittering. It was looking keenly at Christine.

“Witch! Witch!” Big Boy started to chant. The others took it up. “Christine’s a witch! Witch! Witch!”

Christine suddenly rushed at the capering boy, hitting his chest with one balled-up fist. “I said take it back, take it back, you jerk!”

The boy stopped chanting. He took a menacing step towards Christine. “Be careful who you’re calling a jerk, pig-face.”

Christine stood her ground. “Be careful who you’re calling a witch and a pig-face.”

“I’ll call you a witch and a pig-face and a turd anytime I want to.”

Then he pushed Christine roughly. The girl sat down hard on the sidewalk, her teeth clicking. She bit her tongue and tasted blood.

And then the cat launched itself on the bigger boy’s back, spitting and growling. The boy gave out a startled, pained yelp and tried to shake the cat loose.

Marshmallow held on, his claws deep in the shoulders of the bully. He was puffed up and he looked wild. The other kids stayed a respectful distance away from the prancing boy, now screaming for his mother.

Miss Rose came out the front door to see what the commotion is all about. She saw a burly boy, waving his arms wildly and screaming incoherently about the devil. There was something black on his back. She saw Christine stand up. She said, calmly and without emotion, “That’s enough, Marshmallow.”

The black thing unlatched from the boy’s back, dropped to the ground, and walked towards the house. Miss Rose stepped aside to let the cat pass. She thought it might be the sun, but the cat’s eyes looked too bright, too green.

The children scattered. Christine’s shoulders slumped. Miss Rose waited by the door until the child came nearer, then enfolded her in a soft hug.

“I want my mom,” Christine said in a small, hurt voice.

the guardian (3)

The father came home with a woman. She was slim and beautiful, and she wore tasteful clothes. Christine looked at her suspiciously. Her father introduced the woman as his friend. Then they retired to the living room while Christine was sent upstairs to play with Miss Rose.

She was the first. All the women were nice to Christine. They smiled a lot, they brought her candies and toys and books. They stayed for dinner, and had coffee afterwards. Some smoked, some did not. They did not talk to Christine a lot, but they pecked her on the cheek before they left. They all smelled nice. They all said she was a pretty girl.

One woman came for dinner more often than the rest, and after a while she was almost always at the house. When Christine and her father went out to the park, or to the zoo, or watched a movie, she sometimes came. Her name was Laura.

One afternoon Christine came in from play, and Laura was in the kitchen, wearing Christine’s mom’s old apron, making cookies, with flour up to her elbows. Her father was sitting on a stool, and when Christine entered the kitchen he had been laughing, his head thrown back.

For some reason Christine had not liked it. She had not liked the way her father laughed, and she did not like Laura wearing her mother’s apron. She fled to her room and refused to come down for dinner.

Miss Rose sat her down for a talk. She talked about loneliness, about how a man needs a woman to look after him, about how a five-year-old child needs a mother to take care of her.

Christine insisted that she already had a mother, and she did not need Laura. She did not love Laura. In fact, Laura could go to hell.

Miss Rose said that it did not matter if Christine did not love Laura. Christine’s father loved Laura, and he might marry her. And she reminded Christine, gently, that her mother had been dead—been gone—for almost a year now.

Christine cried herself to sleep, rocking Marshmallow back and forth. Marshmallow listened to every word, to all her hurt and confusion and nameless fear.

the guardian (4)

Marshmallow sat on the arm of the sofa. Laura eyed him.

“What an ugly cat,” she muttered.

The cat got up and stretched, sinking its claws on the upholstery. Then it yawned, showing a mouthful of teeth, small but sharp.

Laura was looking at it warily. She moved a little farther away. “Shoo, cat,” she said. Then she picked up the glass of tomato juice.

Perfect.

The cat snarled. It flattened its ears, shook out its tail so it looked like a huge black brush, and made the fur along its back stand up. Its eyes flashed green fire and its claws were out. Laura thought the cat looked ready to kill. Marshmallow hissed at her for good measure, and took a step closer.

Laura shrieked and jumped up. The juice spilled down the front of her white summer dress. She started screaming for Christine’s father.

Marshmallow sauntered nonchalantly away. The voices followed him.
“PATRICK! Your daughter’s cat hates me!”
“Hates you? That’s absurd!”
Then: “Oh, my God, whatever happened to your clothes?”

Miss Rose met the cat in the front hall on its way out. It looked as if it was grinning.

Christine’s father married Laura soon after. Once her things had been moved to the house, she stopped being nice. One by one, Christine’s mother’s things disappeared. The curtains were replaced. In the living room, there were now metal sculptures where there used to be vases of white roses. The plates were now blue, with matching blue water glasses and blue placemats on the table. To Christine, the worst thing was that the potted plants and ferns disappeared from the house. It was as if Laura was erasing every trace, every bit of her mother from her father’s memory, from the house itself.

And she did not like Christine. When they were alone, she became a little bit mean. Laura was a writer for some fashion magazine, and she did most of her work at home. She squinted at the computer for hours and sipped mug after mug of bitter coffee.

It seemed to Christine that Laura was always waiting for her to do something wrong, to slip, so that she could give her a piece of her mind. Or a little pinch. Or a little slap on the bottom. Of course, it never showed when her father was around. Laura was then very sweet and would often kiss Christine’s hair.

The little pinches, the little slaps, came more often. Now Christine was afraid of Laura. When Christine cried after a slap or a pinch that was a little harder than the one before it, Laura warned her not to tell her father. Or she would hurt Christine for good.

Marshmallow watched everything, and snuggled close to Christine at bedtime.

the guardian (5)

Christine was pounding away at her mother’s old piano. Marshmallow was dozing in a patch of sunlight from the open window, looking as if he was hearing Chopin or Mozart. Laura came out of the study, a pencil stuck in her coiled hair, her eyes squinted against the bright afternoon light.

“For God’s sake, can’t you shut that racket up? I’m trying to work in here!”
Christine recoiled. She stopped playing and put her hands in her lap. She sat there, not moving, not looking at Laura.

“It’s not music, Christine,” Laura continued. “It’s noise. Noise. Honestly, one would think your mother taught you something useful.”

Christine looked at her clenched hands, and a small flare of anger—no, of hatred—blossomed in her chest. That hateful tone. That hateful voice. That hateful woman.

Mom, her heart cried out. Mommy!

Marshmallow, half-lidded and drowsy, suddenly shot to his feet. A strangled little meow! came out of his mouth and his fur stood on end.

Laura, about to go back to the study, stopped in mid-turn and gaped at the cat.
“What in hell has happened to that stupid cat?”
In spite of herself, Christine began to giggle. “He sees his pet dinosaur. It’s invisible.” And she giggled again.

Now Laura looked quite cross. “Nonsense. You have cotton for a brain.”

“No,” said Christine, serious now. “Sometimes he looks at nothing and rumbles for hours, like a motorboat. Daddy says he looks like he’s in love when he does that. Marshmallow sees things we don’t see.”

“You would want to stop it, kid,” said Laura. “That’s a lot of bullshit. I might be in a hitting mood today.” She walked over to where Marshmallow crouched. The cat’s muscles were taut, trembling. It stared at her with a fierce intensity that Laura did not like one bit.

Laura kicked the cat. It was hard enough to send him tumbling, sprawling across the living room. He landed near Christine’s feet, looking comically surprised.

Seemingly in one motion, Christine was up and in front of Laura. “You don’t kick Marshmallow! You are mean! My mother would not do anything like that to a cat!” she screamed.

Laura stepped back, and a flicker of unease crossed her face. Then it took on a calculating look. A hating, hurting look.

“Your mother," Laura said, "I’m sick of hearing about your good, kind mother. If she was so bright, then maybe she wouldn’t have been run over by a truck in the middle of the morning, would she? And I wouldn’t be your father’s wife. Which brings me to the point. You watch your mouth. Your mother is dead, and I run the house now.”

Christine felt something bitter come up her throat, seemed to see Laura through a film of red. Her face was flushed and her fists were clenched so tight the knuckles were white.

“You can never be my mother,” she said. “You might be Daddy’s wife, but you can never be what she is. You can never take my Mommy’s place, even in this house.”

For a moment, Laura was totally, unexplainably afraid. Then, pale and shaking, she hit Christine openhanded across the face.

The child fell, stunned. Her hands groped and found Marshmallow, tugged at him, held him close. Laura’s fingers were imprinted on her cheek. The tears were not coming yet.

The cat stared at Laura, its green eyes momentarily flashing fire.

the guardian (6)

That evening, while the house lay quiet and sleeping, something moved in the upstairs hallway. In the dark it was unseen because it was black, but its eyes glowed in the dark. It was pushing at something, pawing something that slid on the floor with a light scratching sound, pushing it towards the stairs. It nosed the thing over and it made a pattering sound as it fell and rested on the fourth step from the top.

It was there when Laura got up at two a.m., because Laura was an insomniac and had the habit of getting a glass of water when she woke up and could not sleep again.

It was there when she started down the stairs.

Laura screamed as she fell, but her scream was cut short as she hit the landing. There was a dull crack, like a brittle branch breaking.

The lights came on, Christine asking “Dad? Daddy, what is it?” Patrick rushing around, calling Laura’s name, was she alright, was it a thief, and Laura-Oh-my-God-Laura-CHRISTINE-CALL-THE-POLICE-OHMYGODMYGOD!

The police came, and then the ambulance, and the cat watched serenely from under the coffee table as he pawed at some toy, a broken wind-up toy car that looked like somebody stepped on it. The men in blue clothes carried something wrapped in a white sheet on something that looked like a bed with handles on both ends.

Voices eddied and ebbed around him.
“…wonder what scared her so bad…”
“—such a fall from so high up—“
“…broke her neck cleanly, though she didn’t have any other scratch—“
“—poor guy. And the kid so silent, man, it’s creepy.”

Marshmallow batted the toy car lightly. It skittered across the floor and went under the couch, where it will lay undiscovered, to be batted out again by a playing cat when morning comes, pushed and nosed towards the door, towards the sidewalk, towards the storm drain.

Yes, Mistress, I took care of that. I take care of the Little Mistress all the time. As I promised you before you went to the other world, I will let no harm come to her. Nobody will hurt her again.

Yes, Mistress, I understand. I will watch over her until she is old enough to fend for herself. And you will give me more strength, isn’t that right? I will live beyond my time. I will be with her when she cries, we will laugh together, like we did when you were just a little girl yourself.

The cat sat there, staring dreamily at the piano stool with his strange green eyes. He purred and purred. Miss Rose watched the cat from the doorway. Her hair was standing up on end, and goosebumps were running down her arms.

once there was a whore (4)

I told myself I was relieved. My pad returned to its normal, rather disheveled state. I immersed myself in paperwork and stayed late in the office. I started going out with Iris, and there were nights when Iris would come home with me. By the time Iris’ clothes started appearing alongside mine in the closet, my mother became ecstatic and started hinting at the prospect of grandchildren.

I was also very unhappy and I did not exactly know why.

One night after dinner, I found Iris browsing over Jane’s pictures on my laptop.
“You know, you should delete these,” she said.
“Leave that alone.”
“So tell me. What did you see in her? I always wondered about that, your call-girl girlfriend.”
“I’m not in the mood for a discussion.”
“She must be good in bed. How much did you spend on her?”
I surprised myself by being angry. “I did not pay her for the sex. Let’s not talk about her.”
“Touchy, touchy,” Iris said, twining her body around me. “So, can she carry an intelligent conversation?”
“Why? So you could congratulate yourself for being a high-handed bitch?”

Iris looked at me long and hard. “Oh, forget it, Mike. Let’s go to bed,” she said.
I removed her arms from around my neck. “Maybe you should go home tonight, Iris.”

Iris then laughed, and her laughter was mocking. “Oh, my God, you’ve fallen in love with a whore!”

I could not say anything. I guess I was stunned. “And you’re not even man enough to admit it. Some kind of hotshot lawyer you are.”
She started to walk away, then she turned to me.
“You know, I’m not here for the sex alone. Get over her, then call me. If you can’t get over her, you’re too smart to be just sitting here doing nothing about it.”

And finally I had to face the truth. I hurried back to Jane, hoping I wasn’t too late.

But of course I was too late. Jane had killed herself. She had thrown herself from an overpass, taking with her all her silent dreams. I cursed the heavy rain that hid my tears; I cursed the briefcase of work that caused me to arrive at her house only three hours late. I cursed the society that damned the Janes of this world to indignity and humiliation. I cursed myself for being weak, for being ashamed, for holding back.

Her note was short. It said, ‘You shouldn’t have taught me to dream. Fuck you, Mike, but I loved you.’

I’m back at the bar, nursing a drink in a little tribute to her. I’m half drunk and half praying to see a lady in a tight black dress, alone and beautiful in the smoky dark.

And if I did, God, I will walk up to her. I wouldn’t care so much about what people would think or say, about my nice little lawyerly world, about educated guesses and social standing. I would worry less about bad sexual habits and more about singing in the shower. I wouldn’t be so scared to accept all that she is.

And I would dare her to dream. I would dare her to fall in love with me. And I would tell her I love her.

once there was a whore (3)

What surprised me more was my immediate pleasure at the thought of having Jane near, all the time.

Jane moved in with me. The change was, to say the least, cataclysmic. She left her underwear in the most inconvenient places: under the seat cushion, in my pants pockets, served beside my morning coffee. She laughed too loud. She sang horribly off-key songs in the shower. She washed my clothes and sorted my shirts by color. She redecorated my living room in pink and orange and was amused by my outrage. She poked around in my files and pretended to be fascinated with legal talk.

I hurried home in the evening to a hot supper and good sex afterwards. I woke up in the morning with a smile and a warm woman wrapped in my arms.
I told my friends Jane was a long-lost sweetheart. I made up her background and painted a sorority sweetheart with the correct connections. Jane’s eyes would grow wary, but her smile remained brilliant.

Somehow my mother found out about her. She knew I was living with a woman, but she thought it was Iris. Jane, who never learned the correct manners, opened the door to her in her underwear while I was out. Mother later stormed the law office and extracted a confession from a terrified secretary about the ill-bred, half-naked woman in my house. She then threatened to tell all her ballroom-dancing friends, my tied-and-tucked lawyer friends, and my father’s politician friends if I didn’t send Jane packing. A week later, she investigated and found out that Jane was still at the house. She told everyone as promised, and then she sent Iris.

Iris had polished nails, designer clothes, and a character backed by twenty years of exclusive schools. She had a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. She also placed third in the bar exam we took together, and we slept together the day the bar exam results were released.

Jane fled. Before she left, she broke every single plate in the house and smashed a dumbbell through the tv set.