By David Billingsley

“They’re insane. It’s like we’re canceled! Where you been?” Jessica, hands on hips, accompanied by the teenage look that made reasonable people want to slap her, was invoking her God-given right to receive a response.

Jesse stepped across the threshold and had no trouble squeezing by all one hundred and two pounds of the estrogen-oozing machine he’d grown up with. He poked his head into his dad’s study, then the kitchen, and glanced upstairs, hoping for a sign of adults or some other mature organism roaming the house. “They’re not here,” he said to the empty space.

In the foyer, Jessica remained, still staring at the front yard through the open doorway. She wheeled around. “For real? I think I mentioned that when I called you.”

“What’d you want me to do?”

“They are not here! I had to cook dinner. I’m done.”

“Really.” Jesse couldn’t help but grin. “Our little Iron Chef.”

“Whatever.” Jessica, arms now folded, shoulders slumped, and lips clinched, started to tap her bare foot on the floor in rhythm to each syllable. “I…need…to…sleep. We’re working out in the morning and competing at Westchester at two-thirty-five in the afternoon on the dot.”

“So sleep. Fend for yourself. Be a man.” Jesse winked and headed for his car. “I’ve got to get back to school.” Just as he passed the archway on the porch, he paused, turned, and faced his sister as if he’d just made an incredible scientific breakthrough. “It would be nice….  No, let me take that back.  It would be a freakin’ miracle if you cleaned up your mess in the kitchen.”

“Some creeper who said he was a collector or something called tonight.”

Jesse nearly stumbled trying to make his perfect intellectual exit along the sidewalk. “What?”

“You’re such a tool. One little shot from me, and I stop you cold.”

“What guy?”

“You’re so smart—said no one ever. See the note on dad’s desk.” The echoes of the bare feet of every Westchester High School boy’s desire tapped across the marble entryway and up the stairs.

His dad’s office was a mess. Papers littered the floor. A half-empty beer bottle sat next to the computer, remnants of a condensation ring staining the glass desktop cover. The top drawer sat open, the contents strewn around as if the police had just ransacked the place.

He had a hard time believing he’d previously overlooked the mess. Private investigator would not be on his resume. The note was written in his sister’s best script. It referenced a Mr. Turnbull at Wells Fargo and it read, “Need to call. Urgent. Payments three months behind. Your time is running out.” The word sus was nearly burned into the bottom of the note with an arrow pointing to the man’s name, no doubt written under the firey eyes of Jessica.

“Sus. Suspicious,” Jesse mumbled. He turned the note over and yelled toward the stairs. “Didn’t you get a phone number?”

The slapping of the feet returned and Jessica appeared in the office doorway, covered in the tight black skin of a material only known to girls from a cheer team. “The slacker tried to hook up with me. I have to get some sleep tonight. Look at this!” Her voice softened, “You think you can sew this up?”

“The phone number?”

She rolled her eyes. “Caller ID, bruh.”

Memories of his home life with Jessica returned. Every trip back convinced him that she was not related to him or his parents. His mother and father were likely out with friends, at a play, a movie, or maybe entertaining some of his dad’s clients. Or maybe it finally dawned on them that Jessica was their child, and they were not coming back.

He reached for his phone and dialed his mother. Even if she didn’t answer, she would soon. She always did. The call immediately went to her voicemail. He sent a short text message and pocketed his phone.

The messy office and the note were a shock to someone who had been raised by a man who didn’t know the definition of late and a mother who had a phobic fear of dust mites. Maybe his father’s brokerage firm had gone sour. Surely he would have kept enough money in reserve to hold the family over for a bit.

“I guess this explains why I haven’t received my check for November expenses,” mumbled Jesse. “Dad just kept telling me it was on its way.”

“My leggings? I need these fixed, or I need new ones. Dad says you need to get off your ass and get a job.”

Jesse tried to ignore his sister who was now bending in poses that made him squint. A job? That comes after college. “He said that?”

She paused and punished Jesse with a smile. She was on autopilot and there was no way to disengage. “Says you’re a junior frat snob and your wallet is a holding cell for his money.”

“Now I know your lying!” Jesse shook his head at the ground. “Dad would never say anything remotely like that, even if he was thinking it.”

“You don’t know them. They’re trash. Partiers. Woke me up last night, laughing and giggling. It was so…I can’t even.”

Jesse scanned the floor of the office. He picked up a stack of papers that seemed to be stuck together with half-coagulated syrup. Then he spotted a familiar item on the floor—the resume he’d sent his father a few weeks ago, asking for advice. But it wasn’t his resume; it was his father’s. Scattered about the document were notes with phone numbers and names of other local brokers.

“Can you do laundry?” Jessica asked. “Put my stuff in the blue basket. I need to scrub my face. This weather is so gross.”

He hardly noticed his sister dancing away. It was true. His father, a man with a six-figure salary and a forty-five-hundred-square-foot house in The Huntington Estates, was out of work. Jesse had three semesters to go. If so, how would he manage to finish and move on to his MBA?

“Jessica!”

There was no answer. He could hear the bumping of bare feet tapping on the bathroom floor upstairs.

* * *

He popped his sister on the shoulder. She frowned and removed the ear buds.

“Listen to this,” she said, pushing the tiny speakers toward Jesse. “Love it.”

“Stop! Where are mom and dad?”

Just then, a buzz in the walls confirmed the opening of one of the garage doors.

Jessica faked a smile. “They’re home. Wash my bras and panties first. I’ll warn you. Mom has some new underwear. You’ll puke.”

Jesse raised one of his eyebrows and looked at his sister. “Thank God I’m through with you.”

* * *

Upon closer inspection, Jesse noted more than the remains of Jessica’s cooking in the kitchen; he found an ecological disaster. The utility room fared no better, containing what seemed a year of laundry scattered about. His sister, silent for once, followed him toward the garage.

“Holy cow,” he said. “When’s the last time you guys did wash?”

“Bro. Mom doesn’t do wash any more, except when she needs something. Totally unacceptable!”

Muffled laughter spilled into the house from the direction of the garage. Jesse started for the door, but was quickly blocked by his sister.

“I’m warning you. They are not like us!”

He shoved her aside and opened the door. The garage was dark save the backlight from the kitchen.

Jesse stood motionless, listening. He took a careful step forward and heard whispers. Two bare feet were sticking out the back window of the new crossover SUV his dad had bought last year. The scene wasn’t registering. Who is in dad’s car?

Jessica stood behind him. “I told you. They’re hardcore now.” Then he heard his sister’s bare feet slapping against the stone floor tiles of the kitchen as she drifted away.

Jesse calmly retreated, stopped in the kitchen, and hopped up onto the island. He’d seen the mess earlier but skipped over the highlights. Dishes and pans were stacked in the sink and no less than six bags from fast food restaurants were scattered about. He made the mistake of taking a deep breath and sighing. His nostrils filled with some rank concoction in the trash. He couldn’t tell whether it had already been consumed or not.

The sound of the car door opening and closing was followed by further laughing likely fueled by the consumption of spirits.

His father stumbled into the kitchen. “My son. Good to see you home from your academic trials and tribulations.”

The man smelled like hooch. “Dad?  Are you growing some kind of beard or just not shaving?” Jesse quickly became the recipient of an uncharacteristic bear hug. “And you’re drinking and driving?”

“Your mother is my designated driver. Angela? Are you coming inside? Jesse is here!” He watched his father two-step his way over to the refrigerator. He was dressed in relatively nice clothes, but they seemed to be thrown on him from a distance.

Some sort of primal screaming laugh radiated into the house. It reminded Jesse of Ellie, his first girlfriend.

“Jesse!” His mother, dressed in too tight of a shirt and black leggings, flew into the kitchen, arms wide open. Jesse felt a crushing blow that reminded him why he never played contact sports. “Mom?” He pushed her back enough to save his balance. “What is this?”

“Just having a little fun. Look what you father got me.” She turned around and pulled the back of her tights down slightly to show a tattoo of a butterfly in a place Jesse didn’t want to see. His heart stopped functioning. Just below the tattoo, in lipstick-red straps, was the sight his sister warned him about and one no son should ever see.

“Too much information,” Jessica cried, dancing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Someone has to get my stuff ready for tomorrow. IQ boy hasn’t been any help.”

Jesse’s mom put her arm around her son. “Now your brother’s home, maybe you can take care of each other.” Then she kissed Jesse on the cheek and ran upstairs.

His dad winked, took a swig of a freshly opened beer, and followed as quickly as his heft would carry him. Again, Jesse shook his head contemplating whether he’d ever seen his mother or father run up the stairs.

Within minutes bumping noises, interrupted by an occasional thud, were grinding through the frame of the house as if construction workers had invaded the second floor. Then, muffled laughter followed by the unmistakable noise of children falling off the bed. Large children!

Jesse had had enough. He ran up the stairs and pounded his fist on the bedroom door.

His father, shirtless and sweating, came into the hallway and shut the door behind him. “Hey, son.”

“I don’t know what you two think you are doing, but it’s got to stop! Did you lose your job?”

Unfazed, his father replied, “Yep.”

“How are you going to pay the bills? What am I supposed to do about school?”

He shrugged and curled his lips downward. “Don’t know. I need to get back in there.”

Jesse grabbed the back of his dad’s dress pants just as his father was about to re-enter the bedroom. The force nearly ripped Jesse off the floor. “Hold it! Do you need some help?”

His father closed the door and pulled his son a few feet away as if he possessed a secret. “I do need some help. Can you spot me fifty bucks? I’ll pay you back.”

Jesse was caught off guard. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Your mom wants some classy Champagne to celebrate. She’s wild when she drinks the bubbly.”

“Celebrate what?”

“You probably know the classy stuff. Nothing but the best for my boy.”

For a split second, his father resembled the father of old. A lesson delivered. Then the red eyes and the carefree grin returned.

“Again, what are you two celebrating?”

His father whispered. “Our independence.” He looked up and down the hall and back at Jesse. “From our children.” Then he ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

Jesse wrung the mop one last time, returned it to the garage, and rinsed the sink. The kitchen was spotless. The stale air had been replaced by the wafting odor of disinfectant and cleaner. The laundry was in order. Clothes had been placed in different baskets labeled for each family member on the bench in the laundry room. He’d called Mr. Turnbull earlier. The man on the other end of the line couldn’t stop laughing. Mr. Turnbull was not from Wells Fargo.

His mother had passed through the former disaster zone a few hours ago on her way to the garage. She picked up some brand of artesian water out of the pantry, straightened her hair in the reflection of the glass on one of the cabinet doors, and left without a word. Minutes later and silent as well, his father passed through in his usual Saturday morning golf attire.

Jessica returned to the house from the garage. Jesse couldn’t help but smile at her appearance. The grass and dirt stains on her shorts, shoes, and tank-top made her look as if she’d been dragged through the front yard. She removed a grimy baseball cap and managed to mix in dirt and sweat across her forehead. “I can’t believe my life has come to this. Mow the yard. Weed the garden. Clean dad’s office. Make the beds. I hardly have any time for me!”

“Jessica?”

“Stop it. I’m not as stupid as you think. I know we’ve been punk’d. Drop me by practice on your way out.”

Jesse nodded.

She pinched him on the shoulder. “And happy job hunting.”