Chapter 22
As soon as I drive into Beatrice's neighborhood, dollar signs roll through my eyes like a slot machine. Whatever this rodent-removing gig is, if I do it right, this person can refer me to their neighbors.
The house is wide, with an ocean of a lawn that is being manicured by a group of men.
I park next to their truck in the driveway and walk down the path to the portico.
Before I can ring the doorbell, a woman in a fancy work dress answers the door while yelling at somebody on the phone.
She waves me in without looking at me for more than a second, but then she glances back one more time in shock at my face.
I think she must be Korean because there is a set of calligraphy near the door that has the kind of circles and rectangles I'd associate with that language; also, her last name is Park.
My sneakers squeak on the polished marble floor. The foyer is opulent and sterile, all white surfaces and gleaming metal. The house has the personality of a robot. Everything is sleek, modern, and utterly devoid of warmth.
On the other hand, I look at the crystal baccarat glass set and the expensive vases, and I can smell the delicious tang of money.
“Yeah, yeah. Tell them they're not in the position to claim that option,” she says.
She motions for me to follow her.
A well-dressed man comes down the stairs with two suitcases. He grimaces when he looks at me.
“You're the pest control?” he asks me. Beatrice nods to him.
“Hi! I'm Wade,” I say.
He quickly shakes my hand and lets go, as if he was doing me a favor by touching me.
“Listen, I gotta put you on hold for five minutes. Deal with it yourself in the interim,” she says, then turns to me. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I'm Beatrice. This is Hal.” She gestures to her husband, who's hurrying out the door with a briefcase.
“By the way, the driver canceled on us. Again,” he tells Beatrice before he shuts the door on her. She sighs.
“He's flying to Dallas to have dinner with some clients,” she tells me. “Please follow me outside. I'll show you where the rodent is.”
She leads me to a magnolia tree in their sprawling backyard. Underneath it is something wrapped in a blanket. When she pulls the blanket off, there's a chonky, adorable… possum.
“That? That is not a rodent.” My voice cracks with bewilderment. Beatrice continues to stare at it skeptically.
“It looks like a rat.”
“How long have you lived in Texas?” I ask.
“I was raised here,” she says, annoyed.
How do you live decades in Texas without knowing what a possum is? This lady really stays indoors.
I explain to her that it's a marsupial, not a rodent. They're actually good to have around since they eat pests and don't get rabies. It takes some reassuring, but I convince her to let me open the cage and free it because its babies are probably waiting for it to come home.
She takes me back inside, apologizing profusely, and just as she's about to pay me, her phone rings.
“One second. I've got to take this. Sorry.”
“Can I wash my hands?” I ask.
“The powder room is down the hall to the left,” she says, pointing behind me. The “powder room.” What, are we at Buckingham Palace?
She yells at her phone while I amble down the hall.
Along the wall before the bathroom door, there's a collection of photos of Hal and Beatrice and their handsome, athletic son.
Below is a console table with a framed black-and-white photo of their son.
Somebody decorated the words “Isaiah 41:10” on the top of the frame and “Fear thou not; for I am with thee” on the bottom.
I guess he passed away, which is really sad.
It isn't until I see the next picture, though, that my lungs go into free fall. There in a group picture in front of the Vatican in Rome is Beatrice, Hal, the son who passed away, and… Roland Greenway.
I sprint into the bathroom and, without thinking, lock the door behind me like I'm being chased. I run the faucet in the sink and sit on the toilet, my knees shaking.
I'm in his house.
Above the toilet is a frosted window. I undo the latch and slide it open, then crawl over the sill, my back and legs scraping against the bottom rail. I fall into the grass and roll twice before getting back on my feet and hauling ass to my van.
I'm right past the mailbox when I hear a “HEY!”
Beatrice comes out the front door and steps into the driveway. “At least let me pay you first.”
I open the van door anyway and put my first foot in. “I'm sorry, my aunt called me and told me our house is on fire. Gotta go!”
“Wait, wait, wait!” she yells, as if my house fire is no big deal. “Is this van wheelchair accessible?”
I nod impatiently. My grandmother bought it especially to lug my grandfather around to hospital appointments when he had Parkinson's.
“My son is in the hospital,” she says. “He's coming home tomorrow night and we can't find a reliable person to drive him back and forth to his appointments.”
“I—uh…” I can't think. I can only gulp. Of course I can't do this. But I look into Beatrice's devastated eyes and my mind is hit with the memory of Roland's body on the pavement.
“I would make it worth your while—at least financially.” She tells me his schedule. He'll need to go three times a week to the physiatrist, urologist, and psychiatrist for the first month, and every other week the next month, and so on. I would need to pick up his medicine at H-E-B.
“I'll give you five hundred dollars a week, plus whatever you need for gas,” she says.
“I have commitments. I'm sorry.”
She rubs her hand over her head and nods, then heads back inside. Who's to say Roland would ever get inside my van in the first place? And driving in Houston is terrifying. People are merciless behind the wheel there.
But she did offer a ton of money. And I need to take any gig I can get if I want to help raise money for the musical.
There are too many variables at play here, and they all hurt my head.
My mind goes back and forth as I turn the ignition, but the van doesn't start.
Great. Now I'm stranded in this rich neighborhood.
My first instinct, as always, is to call Felix, but then I think about how I've let him down.
What if I tried to make things right? Felix could respect me again if he sees I'm making an effort to help Roland.
He couldn't be mad at me for that, right?
Once again, I find myself at Beatrice's front door. She opens it, unpleasantly surprised, with her phone at her ear again.
“It turns out I'm released from my commitment,” I say. “Also, uh, would you mind giving my van a jump?”