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
