Mother’s Day in Paradise
and other problems of rich people
FRIDAY
Two corporate stiffs enter a corporate elevator. Nick presses the L button, sighs. “TGIF.”
Ellie yawns. “Thank God for giving us a six-day work week and a screaming baby on the Sabbath.”
Nick says, “I’m pretty sure we’re only working five. Wasn’t it Henry Ford who started the trend?”
“You mean he improved on God?”
Nick looks amused. “Whatever you wanna call it — he gave his workers a five-day workweek.”
“More like he kept five days to himself and gave them back two.”
“How many days off would you like, Ellie?”
“Seven?”
“You mean, like not working?” Nick laughs, glances at the countdown of the floor numbers above the elevator door. “Why do you work Ellie? Isn’t your husband a hotshot lawyer?”
“Hotshot? Hmm. That’s what you call someone selling green cards to folks that can afford his outrageous fees?”
“So immigration lawyer.”
“That’s a touchy label. I doubt he sells himself as that.”
Nick grins. “I’d stay home if I were married to a lawyer.”
“That’s ’cause you think it’s fun to putter around the house all day.”
“It’s not?”
“Take it from me, Nick, whatever you do, don’t have kids.”
Elevator opens, they step out into the marble-tiled lobby, then toward the revolving doors. About to part ways.
“Happy mother’s day, Ellie.”
“I’m not celebrating.”
Nick smirks. “Very un-American of you.”
Ellie shrugs, yawns. Nick smiles. “Get some sleep, Ellie. See you Monday.”
SATURDAY
Ellie’s with a laptop on the couch in a spacious living room. Sunlight through dust-spattered windows. Glass and steel apartment buildings across the way. She calls out, “Jake, I need a story in six words for my writing class. It’s eight right now.”
Jake enters the room. “Can you keep it down? You’re gonna wake the baby.”
“Can I read it to you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “No sleep, no pills. The un-American way.”
She waits a beat, two beats, a fucking intermission. At last Jake says, “That why you’re so crabby? You didn’t sleep?”
“What do you think?”
“I think the racket’s about to begin. I can hear him stirring.”
“I need to cut two words.”
Jake grumbles. “Forget it. I’ve got enough words at work.”
“I need it in English, not schmegalese.”
“Fine. How about ‘Ambien my love — ’”
“Looking for ways to jack up your big-pharma stocks — is that it?”
“You haven’t let me finish.” He shakes his head, turns to leave, enunciates in a mournful tone on the way out, “Ambien my love, why has thou forsaken me?”
Ellie calls after him, “Screw-you-too-my-love also works. Just needs an extra expletive.”
“Fuck off, then,” Jake calls out from elsewhere in the house, his voice drowned out by the baby’s opening salvo.
Ellie murmurs, “Ambi… Ambience... Still life with a screaming baby. Is that even a story? ” — counting on her fingers — “No sleep, brain fog for hours — Sure thing hon, Pulitzer — here I come.”
SUNDAY
Ellie loads the dishwasher, scrubs the stovetop, makes coffee, ignores the howling from the baby’s room.
Jake enters, holding an inconsolable baby. “You’re up early.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“Happy Mother’s day.” He hands her the baby, pours himself coffee, leans against the counter, sipping. “Why are you working so hard?”
“I dunno. Kitchen’s a disaster area?” She bounces the baby, calms him down.
“I told you to have Cecilia come in today.”
“I told you she’s being deported.”
“What? When?”
“When you weren’t listening.”
“I can’t hear you with his colicky highness blasting my eardrums.”
“How convenient.”
“This again? I told you I can’t just drop everything and take her case.”
“Why? ’Cause she’s not a hotshot techie from Norway?”
Jake sneers. “I’ve never had a single client from Norway.”
“Great. Deny or change the subject. You should run for congress.”
“You think you’d have all this” — he sweeps his arm around the room — “if I were representing illegals?”
“She’s not illegal.”
“I stand corrected, ma’am. Undocumented.”
“Screw you, Matlock. She’s more documented than you and me.”
“Then why is she being deported?”
“‘Cause she’s poor?”
“What kind of crap is that?”
She shrieks, “It’s un-American to be poor.” On cue, the baby starts howling in her arms.
“Look what you’ve done?” Jake is besides himself. “You’re making it worse.”
Ellie smiles. “Here,” hands him the baby. “Mother’s day, remember?”
Jake holds the screaming baby, looks stunned. “Okay, okay, call her. I’ll take her case pro-bono.”
“Call her yourself. You’ve got the number.” She turns to go.
“Where are you going?”
“Writing a story — How to be the perfect mother and other problems of rich people.”
“What? What about the baby?”
“No worries. I’ll get him back from you on Father’s Day.”
