Let The Good Times Roll - Chapter 1

Oliver Littleton: Beforehand

"Edna," I lob a guess from my place on the couch, shoveling the last spoonful of ice cream in my mouth. After licking the spoon, I set the empty bowl on the end table. I'm pissed. Ma wants to get some kind of help for around the apartment, and the last thing I want is an intruder leafing through my paintings and my chick flics, and spending the whole day suppressing laughter. As if owning movies like The Notebook actually makes me a girl.

"Oh, hush, Oliver," Ma intones with a light and airy chuckle, the whites of her teeth peeking out from between her lips. It's the only laugh I'll get out of her today.

"C'mon, Ma," I groan, my head thumping back against the couch cushions. "It's either an Edna or a Bernadette. Do we really need a maid?" I sit up and dangle my legs off the edge of the seat. "I mean, our apartment's two rooms, Ma. Two." I can't stand the thought of an old woman prying around my room in the afternoon hours. I throw a glance towards the clutter of the photos on the floor, and the thick beige curtains in the window. My gaze settles on my unmade bed, which doubles as the couch.

"She offered, Ol, we're not even paying her. She practically insisted. I know, I really should have remembered her name, but---" Ma walks over to where I sit, and bends down to my eye level. She doesn't have to do much work; I've been growing up as fast as cancer grows out these past few months. She tucks her hair behind her left ear, raises a dark eyebrow, and grabs my chin gently in her palm. "We're getting Edna, and you're gonna like it, you hear me?"

I exhale resentfully in response. She pats my cheek, and stands to her feet.

Turns out, Edna's name is actually Rita, which I hate. She comes up to our floor every day and mops up my chip crumbs while I watch TV. I don't really watch what's on the screen; I just lay with my head back on the arm of the couch, always acutely aware of Rita's presence. When she stops sweeping and turns on the vacuum, I notice. When she starts dusting off the picture frames, I notice. Sometimes she stares at the photos under the mantlepiece, and then at me, like she's trying to match something up. I notice.

None of the photos are of me, I want to tell her. There's no point in looking.

She mostly ignores me, which I'm fine with. In fact, I prefer it. There are a few bothersome things about her. She's plenty younger than I expected, in her late twenties. She has a gold nose ring that makes her face look slightly pinched, and sometimes when she thinks I'm not looking, she steals glances at me from the kitchen. She wears chartreuse dresses and stark-white aprons which tie around her neck. This, of all things, I find most typical.

She never says a word to me, but nonetheless, I can never do much else but lounge in front of the television for two hours while she bustles around the apartment. Her mere being is irksome and intrusive. I feel awkward and exposed each time the invader parades around the house with her mop and bucket. Each sweep she makes leads me to feel messy and disassembled. I feel constantly as if I'm under evaluation. It's no fault of Rita's, but I hate her nonetheless.

I call her Edna both when she is around and when she isn't. It's a behavior Ma discourages. "Shut it, Oliver," she mutters, breathing forcefully through her nose whenever I badger her with Edna-this and Edna-that. The point is, I want Edna gone. When she's here, it's two hours less of my day that I can spend being myself. But turns out, Ma's busy with other things, like paying the bills, so I stop ragging on her about it. Every Saturday, the mailman drops off a handful of envelopes addressed to Angie Littleton, and Ma uses a baby knife as a letter opener. She always closes her eyes as she unfolds the paper. Her eyelids unstick from her blushed cheeks. Slowly scanning the paper. Slowly closing again. She does everything slowly, like she's hoping the numbers will start counting backwards.

Summer blooms quickly, however, the sun sweltering over my skin, the season breezing in over the Pacific. I abandon my resting place on the couch and migrate to the wide window sill. I pull back the thick curtains and sit with my leg dangling off the edge, letting my eyes flutter closed as the air conditioning blasts through my hair.

It's been two weeks since Edna first stepped tentatively over the threshold. I stride to the door after five hours of bending at the waist in Amia's garden. I have to jostle the doorknob and drive my shoulder into the screen for the door to budge. The hinges are broken; I've told Ma I'll fix them, but I haven't gotten around to it.

"Hi," I hear from inside the kitchen. I bring my eyes up and expect Ma to be standing there, but to my horrified surprise, it's Edna. It's the first time she's ever spoken a single word to me. I act unfazed and scratch my temple. Edna's hands are clasped in front of her as she stands completely upright. Almost as if she's been waiting for me.

"Hey," I greet in return. Then I traipse over to the window and pull back the curtain. A seagull flies close enough to the window to face-plant into the glass, but it escapes with its life. I turn on the AC with my right hand, but no air erupts from the vent. I put my palm in front of it, and flip the switch rapidly back and forth. "Broken," I mumble, incredulous. It seems like everything's breaking down around here.

"It's not broken," Edna pipes up, still watching me. "Ang--your mother told the men in black shirts to turn it off." And then, clearing her throat uncomfortably, "She told me to tell you that she'll be late comin' home tonight."

Sunlight streams through the window pane and ricochets off the linoleum floor. My fingers toy with a quarter in my pocket. We're so poor that we can't even afford cold air, I think to myself, and the truth is, I'm terrified. I'm constantly thinking about all the things money can't buy anymore. Like come wintertime, when frostbite comes from under the door and warm air seeps away, and there're only two blankets to hide under. Or when I end up having to sell my bicycle, and end up spending the money on the new legs I'm going to need to buy myself after walking to work and back again everyday. I'm a lucky kid, I guess; I have a mom and a dog and a job. But luck is relative when you start thinking of the things you don't have.

I tell myself that everyday, but I should know by now that self-persuasion never solves anything.

"Did she call?" I ask Edna, wiping my mouth. "Or leave me a message?"

"No," Edna tells me. Her eyes dart back and forth across the floor.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yes," Edna replies. She tucks a lock of obsidian-black hair behind her ear. She looks guilty, though I have no guess as to why she appears that way. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I make a sandwich and then head back down the front stairwell of the building. After unchaining my bike, I throw my leg over the seat and pedal down the asphalt. I ride downhill and coast most of the way to Amia's, standing on the pedals. My shirt billows out from my body, and the wind rushes by.

Back when I used to think that professional bike-riding was a career, I would take my bike out to the alley behind Gino's Pizza and practice making sharp turns around the dumpster cans. I'd come home sweaty, and Ma would ask where I'd been (though she knew), and I'd tell her I was at the BMX races on Rocket (which is what I decided to name my bike). Ma would always tell the other moms that I was a quirky kid, but I guess there could've been worse words to describe me.

I pass the market, colored tents flurrying by, things fleetingly catching my eye. A woman hefting a trash bag to the roadside, and a little boy racing up the steps to an apartment, cordless laptop under his arm. The boy and I make eye contact, and his brow furrows. He has an earring in the shape of a cross; it blinds me like a camera flash.

Eventually, the apartment buildings shrink into houses, and the alleyways broaden into luscious green yards bordered by tall fences and climbing rose gardens. The sun always seems brighter in this part of town; on some days I fantasized about living here, a place where the sun shines even when your heart's a rainstorm crashing in your chest. Back at home, the clouds are like a mirror; one moment you look down and the next, thunder's breathing down the back of your neck.

I jerk my bike to a halt at the edge of the tall, black fence, tires flicking to the right with grace and skidding to a stop on the pavement. I dismount, leaning my bike against the fence and wrapping the chain tightly around it, before clamping on a lock. The metal chinks brightly, and the right side of the gate opens.

I make my way down the long driveway and up to the door, knocking twice. Nobody answers, and I wait a moment before pushing the screen door open and peering inside. "Ms. Wilder?" I ask, slightly out of breath. Just then, a woman comes careening around the corner with an armful of beige towels and miniature bottles knocking around near her elbows. Her eyes fall on me, and she tries to hide her fluster with a smile.

"Oliver," she says in a strange voice. Hollow, like she's just swallowed something big and couldn't quite get it down. "What a nice surprise."

"I always come to work after lunch," I tell her, bewildered. Amia rushes up to me, her eyes darting from side to side. She gives me a bony hug, and then shoves one of the bottles into my hands like it's a truce she wants me to accept.

"There's juice in the fridge," she tells me, gesturing towards the kitchen, and is about to leave before she snaps back in my direction. "And Oliver, doll, stay in the front. Don't go near the pool; the ladies and I have a lunch date." She's already turning around and skittering away before she finishes her sentence. She nearly trips over her feet before she disappears down the hallway.

I look down at the bottle in my hands. It's one of those miniature bottles of alcohol they give out on flights. My brow furrows. Amia has never once offered me a drink; while I've been in her house, and to my knowledge her and my mother share something of a friendship, we've always been on a strict employer-employee basis. I'm underage. I turned seventeen last November, and even if I might look old, I don't look old enough to drink.

Instead of actually making a drink, I just put the bottle in my pocket and head back outside to the garden. The shovel I discarded before lunch is upended in the dirt. I yank it from its place. The sun is beating down on my shoulders, but I don't mind it much, taking a shovelful of soil and depositing it to the left of the hole I'm digging. I have ten more to dig before work's done. The flower garden's always well-tended to, and I take pride in that. Though, I wouldn't doubt that Amia shows her guests around her yard and claims the gardens to be the work of her own bare hands.

She's always been like that. She craved attention and had a dire need for acknowledgement. She has her daughter, but from what I hear, neither of them like each other. She's a lonely woman; that or she's certifiable. I can't tell which. One time, I walked into her house in the early morning to ask if it was too early to water the fruit trees. I got inside, and her backside was propped against the basement door as she gazed down the stairwell, talking to herself. "I'll have breakfast ready for when you wake up, Luke," she was saying. Luke is her husband, but he's dead, or so I hear. Ma's been telling me how his heart exploded like an A-bomb, and that the destruction disseminated over the city. Turns out, his body was cold like a brick before it hit the floor. The grief was like a plague. Ma keeps using the phrase collateral damage. I think I know what she means.

"Some people have it harder than others," Ma's always saying, but doesn't tell me who's on which end of the spectrum. It really is hard to tell. But whenever she talks about it, Ma's honey eyes drown until they hit the tabletop and turn a melancholy blue. Her eyes only change colors when she's upset, so I refrain from asking questions. I try not to feel bad when Amia takes credit for my work. I figure she needs affirmation of her worth; true or false. I'm never certain as to whether that deserves sympathy or disdain, so I try not to feel anything at all.

That's harder than you think, you know.

I take a drink break, chugging bottled water as sweat pours down my neck. Upon taking a look around, a person standing by the gate catches my eye. His right hand is braced against the fence, and the bars cast shadowed lines across his complexion. His ball cap's on backwards, and his body's angled to the side, like he's aiming for an easy escape route. He keeps licking his lips.

When he sees me looking at him, his eyes flick to the thicket of trees across the road, like he's thinking of making a dash for them. We lock eyes. He looks apprehensive. I wonder if he wants to come inside. Amia probably doesn't see him at the gate. Setting the bottle down, I decide to head around back to tell Amia about the man at the fence.

I jog up the steps and push past the screen door, abandoning my work in the garden. "Ms. Wilder?" I call out, voice echoing emptily through the mansion. There's no answer. I shouldn't have expected any; I remember Amia saying something about a lunch date with her friends. I head to the pool room immediately, making a beeline down the hallway and opening the door.

My eyes go wide.

The room is empty except for the poolside lounger, where a tall African girl is laying completely naked and sprawled out across the cushion. There's something clotting up near her temple; it looks like blood. There's a pile of towels on the floor.

Just as my mouth falls agape, I hear footsteps deriving from the doorway across the room. Amia emerges in a frenzy, face hardening when she sees me. I'm still in a state of discombobulation. Her chest rises with fury, and her wrinkled eyes widen. "I thought I told you to stay in the garden, Oliver," she reprimands sharply. I want to tell her about the guy at the gate, but my mouth won't form the words. My gaze keeps flitting to the unconscious girl.

"Get out!" Amia yells, sweeping her arm out towards the door, teeth long and gnashing. She's angrier at me than I've ever seen her.

"Sorry, Ms--" I stutter, in a panic. "I didn't mean to--"

"Out!" she repeats, so I stare at her for a moment like a gazelle in the middle of the road before stumble-running away. The door closes behind me, and I catch one more glimpse of the girl on the lounger. The girl's eyes flutter open, and she meets my fleeting eye. As I run back to the garden, I can't get the sight of her out of my head. The paralyzed look of confusion and horrification in her eyes is burned into my brain.

A million thoughts are racing through my mind, and nausea creeps into my stomach. Soon, I'm surrounded by climbing rose plants and the seven holes I'd gotten to digging. Breathless, I take a moment to look at the gate.

The boy's gone.

Not knowing what else to do, I grab the shovel and get back to work.

I try not to feel anything. It really is difficult.