The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal

“Do you think it’s up on more than one site?”

“If it is, I’ll find it.”

“She’s going to go after that man,” Victoria said.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Fig stood. He owed her that much. “I need to get back to work, too.”

“Now that we know what happened you don’t have to stay on here,” Victoria said.

“I know. But I’ll finish out my shift.”

Roxie pulled her red Scion onto the short, bumpy, part-gravel, part-concrete patch that served as her driveway, turned off the engine and leaned back in her leather seat. The tiny house she shared with Mami held not one good memory, and yet, rather than filling her with excitement, the prospect of being forced to live somewhere else filled her with dread—mostly because Mami would not handle the change well. Dull blue paint, faded, chipped black shutters—one hanging askew—and overgrown, half-dead landscaping told the world this was not a happy place. The moss growing on the roof, the saggy porch and the collection of other people’s discarded stuff that overflowed into the side yard added to the dilapidated appearance.

Oh, to have her own home to return to after a hard day’s work. To live a stress-free, clutter-free, mother-free existence where the only person she was responsible for was herself. To be able to open a beer, actually sit down on the living room sofa and watch some mind-numbing television.

Her cell phone rang. She dug into her huge purse on the seat beside her and looked at the screen. The hospital. She let out a breath. What did she forget? Or was it Victoria calling to tell Roxie her fate? “Hello.”

“Hey,” Fig said. “You ran out of here before I could give you the message from your brother.”

No need to ask which one. Only Ernesto, the one closest to her in age, took the time for an occasional phone call. But, “He called the hospital?”

“No. Your cell phone. While I had it. I thought it might be your mom so I answered it.”

Well, surprise, surprise. A nice gesture.

“He, uh—” Fig hesitated “—sounded angry.”

What did he have to be angry about? She was the one desperately trying to reach him for over a week with no response.

“I think—” Fig hesitated again.

“Just spit it out already,” Roxie said.

“I think he may have seen your video.”

Not Ernesto. He’d be the last one she’d expect to …

“I’m sorry, Rox. I got tied up. I’m on my way home now, and I’ll take it down as soon as I get there.”

Help. From an unexpected source. “Thanks.”

“You doing anything tonight?” he asked. “I thought maybe we could …”

“If I decide I need sex you’re unlucky number thirteen on my list.”

“I’m not calling for sex. Just dinner. I want to explain …”

Roxie noticed the bags on the front porch. “No.” She sat up. “She didn’t.”

“What?” Fig asked.

“I’ve got to go.” Roxie ended the call then pushed open the car door, lunged out and slammed it shut. “Not again.” She stormed across the patchy grass and packed dirt of the small front yard, whipped out her key and tried to open the door. Met resistance. Shouldered it open just wide enough to squeeze through. “I told you we need to keep the doorway clear,” she yelled in frustration.

Behind the door her mother had stowed five white garbage bags filled with clothes. Roxie picked each up and hurled them, one at a time, into the depths of what used to be the family room, bringing the junk piled in the far corner up to chest level.

“This is crazy!” Roxie screamed. “Why are the bags back on the porch?” Two huge black garbage bags, filled to capacity, put out at the curb for the sanitation service to pick up that morning. Two bags of trash that were no longer adding to the safety hazards of their home. A mere speck of progress in cleaning out the house. Derailed. “And I told you to stop accepting used clothing from the church.” A total of five bags that she saw. But who knew if her mother had more stashed somewhere?

“Deja de gritar. Stop yelling,” Mami said, shuffling slowly, carefully along the narrow pathway from the back of the house to the kitchen, the clutter on either side of her hip-high.

“Do you understand what happens if the fire marshal doesn’t see a noticeable improvement in our living conditions? He’ll condemn this house as unfit for human habitation. If we don’t sort through this junk—like I’ve been trying to get you to do for years—he’s going to do it. We’ll be forced to leave. I can’t afford a mortgage payment and a rent payment. We have one lousy week left. One week.” An impossible time frame to sort through years of accumulation. The two bags she’d managed to drag to the curb had taken at least a dozen hours of encouragement and convincing to get her mother to part with her treasured possessions. And now, not only were they back, but she’d accepted five more.

“I won’t leave my house.” Her mother stood tall despite her slightly hunched shoulders, looked vaguely formidable despite her frailty and washed-out floral housedress. “These are my things. Tus hermanos vendrán. Your brothers will come. You’ll see.”

Not one of her four brothers had visited “the den of crazy” in the fifteen years since the last one had moved out, leaving Roxie—her mother’s unsuccessful attempt to save her failing marriage—to care for her mother, the house and herself, on her own, since the age of ten.

“If they think it’s unsafe for you to go on living here—” and what normal person wouldn’t? “—they will make you leave.” The interior looked like a huge refuse heap, with only the tops of long-standing, partially collapsed piles available to view. Children’s clothes, toys, magazines and books—for the grandchildren her mother had never met. Housewares—for the daughters-in-law who shunned her. Newspapers—to wrap the castaway finds for safe transport when her sons returned home to finally accept their mami’s gifts of love.

Too little. Too late.

And while the brothers, who’d never had time for their way-younger sister, continued to rebel against the past and focus on their futures, Roxie lived an ant-farm existence, maneuvering along paths she maintained daily, leading from the front door to the kitchen, two of the three bedrooms and the bathroom. Seven years ago she’d closed the door to the third bedroom—so cluttered with junk it was unsafe to enter—and to her knowledge, the door hadn’t been opened since.

“They’ll physically remove you, Mami.” When she refused and fought, like Roxie knew she would, what then? Would she get hurt? Have a heart attack? Get a free trip to the psych ward over at Madrin Memorial?

Maybe that’s what she needed. Maybe the firemen alerting the fire marshal and health department to the state of their home was exactly what Mami needed to finally deal with her hoarding and allow Roxie to clean more than the bathroom and kitchen counters.

“Lo siento,” Mami said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t find the stuffed frog for little Daniel. I thought maybe it was in one of the trash bags.”

“It’s in the dryer,” Roxie said. “It needed to be washed. Remember?”

Mami looked down at her hands.

No. She didn’t remember. Which was another reason Roxie needed to clean out the house. If Mami’s health continued to deteriorate, soon she’d need someone to supervise her while Roxie was at work. Whereever she happened to be working. If she was working.

She had to work. And she’d need a good job to continue to support the two of them and pay for the house and an attendant and the cleaning crew she’d put off hiring, worried the stress of strangers in their home would be too much for Mami.

But they were running out of time. “Mami. We need help. We can’t do this on our own,” she broached the topic. “There’s a …”

“No.”

“Please. Be reasonable.” It was the same argument every time. “We can’t continue to live like this.” Existing was more like it. Mami had no friends except for some women from the church, a bunch of enablers who inventoried the donated items and contacted her to see what she “needed.”

Roxie couldn’t entertain, spent the hours at home confined to her bedroom—the only clean, orderly room in the house because she dead-bolted the door whenever she left—unless she was supervising her mom’s shower, cajoling her to sort and clean or cooking the meals they ate on wooden TV trays surrounded by Roxie’s hepa filters which just barely neutralized the odor of decay, and God knew what else, that lingered outside her door.

“Lo siento,” Mami said again, this time with a sniffle. “I’m sorry.”

Great. Roxie felt like a big bully. She’d made her mother cry. She stepped over a small stack of magazines and skirted around a laundry basket that held dozens of her mom’s favorite frogs to reach her. “I’m sorry, too.” For yelling, for forgetting, albeit momentarily, that hoarding was a mental illness and not laziness or purposeful behavior meant to upset Roxie. She pulled the only family member who really mattered to her into a hug. “It’ll all work out, Mami.” Although how it would, she had no idea.

“I’ll do better,” Mami said. “After dinner. We can try again.”

It was always later or tomorrow. Any time but right now.

“We can do it. We don’t need a bunch of strangers in here.” Mami scanned the devastation that had once been a large eat-in kitchen, family room and dining room, and sighed. “It’s overwhelming.”

“One area at a time,” Roxie said, taking Mami’s hand and leading her along the path through the kitchen. “You decide, like on the television show. We’ll continue with our piles. One for each of the boys and their families. And one for…Papi.” She nearly choked on the word. “But you’ll have to let me box it all up and mail it.”

“No. They need to come. I want to see them to show them.”

They weren’t going to come. Mami’s ex-husband—who Roxie referred to as such because he refused to accept she was his daughter—had remarried years ago. As for her brothers, the only one she had any semblance of a relationship with was Ernesto—if you considered an annual birthday telephone call and occasional requests for money a relationship—and he hadn’t come home any of the other times she’d asked him to, so she didn’t hold out much hope he’d suddenly developed a conscience.

“Let’s eat,” Roxie said, changing the subject. She’d had about all the confrontation she could handle for one day.

Despite her moratorium on men, by Thursday night, forced by the frustration of Mami refusing to clean and annoyance at the number and tone of the messages piling up on her cell phone in relation to her video, the neon-pink and fluorescent-orange walls of Roxie’s bedroom seemed to squeeze in on her. And under the weight of worry about where they’d go when forced to leave their home and what would happen if she lost her job, her bright sunshine-yellow ceiling seemed to sag until she felt it just might smother her. Roxie needed to get out, to mingle and occupy her mind so she’d stop obsessing about things outside of her control.

“Shake it off.” Roxie shook out her arms and legs then rotated her neck. “Nothing you can do about it.” Play it cool. She slid each foot into a flat gold-colored sandal that showed off her bright pink self-manicured toenails to perfection. “Nothing bothers Roxie Morano.” She walked over to the dresser and inserted a large gold hoop earring into each earlobe. Then she stood tall and evaluated her reflection in the full-length mirror angled high on her wall.

Denim mini hugging tight to her curves. She swiveled to get a look at her butt. Check.

Legs smooth and lotioned to an enticing sheen. Check.

Hair a mass of loose, wild curls lending a carefree, untamed appearance. Check.

Tube top—in an attention-getting hot-pink—accentuating each of her womanly assets. Check and check.

Roxie was ready to go. A quick peek to make sure her mother was sleeping, and she went outside to wait for the cab, antsy to get find-the-humor-in-anything drunk, psyched to lose herself in some make-me-forget-how-much-my-life-sucks-at-the-moment sex. Preferably of the un-videotaped variety.

Outside the heavy wooden doors to O’Halloran’s Bar, one of three bars in town, and the preferred drinking and bar food eating establishment for the majority of Madrin Memorial employees, Roxie hesitated. While the music from the jukebox beckoned her, she sought fortification in the vibration of the bass and swayed her hips to the slow rhythmic beat.

She could do this. So what if the people inside had watched her video, had seen her naked and wild with passion? At least they hadn’t seen the worst of it. She let out a breath, determined to enjoy this night. Tomorrow she’d deal with Johnny’s new threat.

“You don’t have to go in there,” a male voice said from behind her.

For a split second she stiffened, until she recognized it as Fig’s voice.

“We can go someplace else. Maybe talk a bit more about what we’re going to do to each other when we get naked.”

Like they’d passed the time at the employee recognition dinner last week. “You see that’s where we differ.” She turned and gave him the once-over, noting his loose-fitting, expensive-looking jeans, long-sleeve white tee, black leather vest and black ascot cap. Damn it if he didn’t smell even better than he looked. “I like the doing more than I like the talking.” She reached for the handle on the door. “And I’m not one to hide out because of a little controversy.”

“Then allow me.” He pushed one hand past hers and opened the door. The other he set at her low back and, applying a gentle pressure, eased her inside.

Just as the song on the jukebox ended. The bar went quiet. All eyes turned on her. Roxie hesitated.

Fig leaned in close, his chest pressed to her back, his palm flat on her belly. “Time to muster up some moxie, Roxie,” he whispered. “Every woman in this bar is wishing she had a body as gorgeous as yours, and every man is wishing he had your long, beautiful legs clamped around his butt.”

Roxie relaxed. Smiled even. “Does that include you?” She allowed herself to be led to the large wooden bar.

“Nah.” He assisted her up onto a stool, even though she didn’t need assistance then slid onto the stool beside her. He looked up, locked a pair of dreamy green eyes with hers and added, “My wish involves them wrapped around my head.”

Hell-o! An excited tingle started—there—and flared out to her periphery. Roxie came dangerously close to grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off to someplace more private. So she could grant a little wish fulfillment. Because with men there was a Polly Pocket–size window of opportunity between “I want to make you feel so good” and “me, me, me.” But, “So that’s why you’re here? Sex?” Making him no better than the rest of her post-pornographic-video fan club. Too busy to bother with an official date, too cheap to shell out some bucks on dinner and a movie, but ready to get naked at the first opportunity. The slug.

“I’m here because Victoria’s worried you’re heading down a dangerous path.”

“Ah. How sweet.” Not. “And she sent her does-what-he’s-asked-to-do lackey to stop me?” Roxie stood. “Well, thanks anyway, but I don’t need a keeper.” She didn’t need anyone.

“I beg to differ.” He caught her by a belt loop on her skirt as she tried to walk away. “Sit down,” he said quietly, but it was an order all the same.

Not likely. “Who do you think …?”

“I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using only my tongue and teeth,” he said, calm as can be. The randomness of his comment caught her off guard. Intrigued, Roxie stopped.

“In eight seconds,” he added with a slow, confident smile.

He was too cocky for his own good. “Triple B,” she called the bartender. “The usual for me. My friend would like something with a cherry in it.”

“I guess that leaves you out,” Raunchy Rob from Radiology called from the other side of the bar. The guy next to him laughed.

“Ha-ha,” Roxie said. Idiot.

Fig stood, looking ready to do some damage. “Apologize to the lady,” he demanded.

“What?” Rob asked. “I was only having some fun. You know I love you, Roxie.” He snickered. “Even more so on my computer screen.” He elbowed the loser next to him. They both chuckled.

Fig took off.

Now it was Roxie holding him by the belt loop in a futile attempt to slow him down. “Don’t.” The man was a plow horse. She was the plow, her sandals absolutely no help in the traction department. “Oh, look,” she tried. “Our drinks. Time to prove your oral dexterity.” Fig kept on going. “For heaven’s sake, apologize, Rob. Or I’ll tell everyone …” about his stubby little pecker. What a miserable night that’d been.

“I’m sorry.” Rob hopped off his stool and backed across the dance floor. “I’m sorry. Hell, Roxie. Call him off.”

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