“She’s your maid, then?”
“Do we use those sorts of terms in the 21st century? She’s my house manager.”
“Rich people have house managers,” I clarify. “Regular folks like me are still called maids because there’s no politically correct word that’s going to change the fact that I clean people’s toilets for a living.”
“Not trying to defend, correct, or offend you.” He holds his hands up in a motion of surrender. “I’m just saying.”
“No offense taken, but I’m just stating the facts. The company I work for is called Minute Maids for a reason. I’m not embarrassed or belittled by that title, so you shouldn’t be afraid to use it.”
“Understood.”
I notice how Bronx flinches when he swallows the amber liquid. It hasn’t escaped my notice that he seems to be in pain more often than not. That must be exhausting, especially for someone so young.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask carefully.
“Go ahead.”
“Your throat.” His expression tightens, but I still ask the question. “Can you tell me what happened?”
20
Karma
As I wait for his response, I pull out the various bowls I need to sort my wet and dry ingredients for the cake. Plus, I’m hoping that by keeping busy, I will make him feel more comfortable to share his story. I’m assuming it’s not a good one.
“My scar is not something that I easily discuss with people.”
“Why?”
“Maybe for the same reason you don’t talk about what it was like growing up in a foster home.”
“I never said that I don’t talk about it.”
“I know a childhood wound when I see one and you’re a walking billboard.”
I take offense to that, so I clap back.
“And so are you!”
He takes another painful sip, then rolls back the lid of the breadbox on the counter. I’m flabbergasted when he pulls a fresh pack of cigarettes out of a carton stored inside, not a slice of bread in sight.
“You mind?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m baking you a cake.”
“I’m not following.”
“I don’t want my chocolate cake to taste like cigarette smoke.”
“Fine, I’ll smoke later.”
He slides the cigarette back in the pack and pulls a spray bottle of water out of another cabinet. He walks over to the palm tree and starts methodically spraying each of its slender leaves and stroking each blade with his fingers.
“Has anyone ever told you that you drink and smoke too much?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“That’s too bad.”
