Where Dreams are Born

Vicky Lowell cleared her throat and rang the doorbell. When no one answered her first ring, she rang the bell again. This time a baby howled and heavy footsteps approached. The door swung open.
“Mr. Hazlett?” she asked.
“It’s about time you got here,” the harried man shouted over the din.
“Excuse me?”
Taking care not to muss his shirt and tie, the man handed the fussy baby into her arms. Two little girls in their underwear clung to each of his pant legs. “You’re late,” he said. “That means I’ll be late. But I’m willing to overlook that if you can start right away.”
“Mr. Hazlett, I think there’s been some mis—”
“Look, if it’s all right with you we can discuss the details later. I have a very important presentation this morning so I have to hurry. I promise I’ll make it worth your while if you can start immediately.”
“But—”
“Damn it.” He shook off the clinging children. “Look at that, I’m wrinkled already.”
The man strode into the kitchen and she followed. “But, Mr. Hazlett—”
“I left important phone numbers for you on the desk.” He took a last slurp from a coffee mug on the table, grimaced, and then rushed for the door. “If you need anything else, ask the kids,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Mouth still open, Vicky took note of her surroundings: a kitchen table littered with pizza crusts and cereal bowls, remnants, no doubt, of its occupants’ last two meals, counters piled high with dirty pots and pans, and microwaveable plastic overflowing from the trash can. Clearly, Tuesday must be the cleaning lady’s day off. Though from the overall condition of the room, the woman must have been AWOL far longer than a day.
Surprised people of obvious means could live so haphazardly she turned her attention to the whimpering baby in her arms and the two children staring up at her. The younger one hid behind her sister, a thumb in her mouth and one tiny finger hooked around a button nose.
The baby, suddenly aware of the stranger whose hip she straddled, began to cry in earnest. Vicky bounced the child on her hip.
“Jodie thgared,” Thumb sucker said.
“Jodie—is that her name? And what’s yours, sweetie?”
The child released her wrinkled thumb. “Soo-soo,” she said, before latching onto it again.
“Soo-soo?” Vicky repeated.
“Suzy.” The older girl yanked her sister’s thumb from her mouth with a pop. The indignant thumb sucker did an angry jig before re-plugging her mouth.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Vicky said to the older girl.
“Guess.”
Vicky rubbed her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Now let me see. Could it be Ophelia, by any chance?”
The guess drew a frown from both children.
“No? How about Wilhelmina?”
The girls gave tentative giggles.
“Oh, I know, I know,” she said. “It’s Hepzibah!”
The girls howled. “No, it’s Yinda,” little Suzy said.
Linda’s brown eyes flashed as she elbowed her little sister. “She was s’posed to guess, dummy.”
Little Suzy swung back at Linda but missed.
Hoping to head off a skirmish, Vicky diverted their attention with a rubber squeeze toy, poking it into baby Jodie’s tummy, and squeezing. The air emitted made a funny noise, prompting giggles from all three children. Taking heart from their amusement, she aimed the squeaker at Suzy. The child lifted her undershirt and stuck out her belly. Vicky squeezed again, and another spate of giggles followed. But when she approached Linda, the little girl pushed the toy away.
Vicky set the squeaker aside, put the baby in her high chair with a hard cookie to gnaw on, and then tackled the clutter. As long as she was stuck there, she might as well make herself useful. She didn’t start her shift at the café until five. “So,” she said as she scraped dried tomato sauce and Froot Loops from the table, “where’s your mommy today?”
“In hebben,” Suzy said.
The unexpected answer gave Vicky pause, perhaps for its content, perhaps for the matter-of-fact way it was delivered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You must miss her very much. I know I did when I lost my mama.” She purposely didn’t mention the loss of her father, not wanting to introduce that fear into their already scarred lives.
Suzy nodded forlornly. Then, her momentary sadness eclipsed by childish exuberance, she said, “Wanna see my dowwy?”
Before Vicky could answer, the child ran off, twin ponytails bobbing like springs over her bare shoulders. Seconds later, she returned with a naked rubber doll whose hair looked as if it had done serious damage to the electrical circuits.
Cradling the doll, Vicky smoothed the stiff tufts protruding from its head. “Why, it’s just like a real live baby,” she cooed.
“I got a nicer doll.” Linda ran to fetch hers. “Mine is a grownup lady doll. See, she even has titties.”
Vicky regarded the Barbie with high, pointy breasts grossly disproportionate to her pencil-thin frame. Wearing a tight red skirt, textured hose, and knee-high, black boots, the doll looked as though she could be on a first name basis with the vice squad.
“Well, she certainly is, uh, lovely,” Vicky said.
“Yemme see.” Suzy reached for the doll.
“No, you have your own.” Linda held the doll out of reach.
Vicky stepped between the children. “I have an idea. Why don’t you try to guess my name?”
The hyperactive Suzy jumped up and down. “Me first, me first.”
“I don’t want to.” Linda wandered off wearing a long face.
Suzy promptly reeled off every woman’s name she knew. After trying Marcia, Jan, Cindy, Carol, and Alice, she heaved an exasperated sigh. “I give up.”
Vicky laughed. “I see someone watches a lot of vintage TV around here. Okay, since you gave it a good try, I’ll tell you. It’s Victoria, but you can call me Vicky.”
Game over, Suzy scampered off. “I wanna watch cartoons now.”
Baby Jodie, hearing a familiar word, banged her bare heels against the footrest of her high chair.
“Okay, you can watch ’toons too,” Vicky said with a laugh.
The girls settled in front of the TV and Vicky took a moment to study them. Linda, the oldest and plumpest of the three, appeared to be around five years of age. If speech and size were any indication, the exuberant Suzy was about three. Baby Jodie, with six pearly teeth, couldn’t be more than a year old. All had large brown eyes, though Suzy’s were the darkest, almost black, like her father’s.
With the youngsters conveniently engrossed in the homicidal antics of Tom and Jerry, Vicky finished straightening the kitchen, and then took a quick tour of the house, curious as to how the other half lived. Whoever had designed and decorated the house had exquisite taste, as each room, though littered with toys, crayons, and dolls, appeared well appointed with fine furnishings and tasteful accessories. Completing the picture of affluence was a well-outfitted backyard with a massive wood swing set and in-ground pool.
Because Mr. Hazlett hadn’t said what time he would be back, Vicky hoped to have the lower floor presentable on his return. If there was a position available—and from the way he talked, there was—she hoped to be in the running. There were a lot worse jobs than cleaning a gorgeous home and caring for three adorable little girls.
Situated in a ritzy section of Sable Point, the Hazlett home had impressed Vicky the moment she pulled into its bricked driveway. With a soaring two-story entry over a pair of oak doors, each handsomely fitted with leaded glass inserts, the home bespoke elegance.
As lovely as the house was though, she’d noticed obvious signs of neglect: sick geraniums gasping for air in waterlogged, plastic pots, shrubbery in need of a drastic pruning, and a yard filled with more weeds than grass. Whoever tended to the grounds was also shirking his duty. Kin to the cleaning lady, perhaps?
Aware of time slipping away, Vicky checked her watch, hoping to squeeze in a few yard sales before leaving the upscale neighborhood. That is, if the local gendarmes didn’t send her packing for blighting the streets of Sable Point with her scruffy pickup.
As a single parent with limited time and money, Vicky had ample experience culling through trash to unearth treasure, having picked up several nice pieces of jewelry and designer wear for herself, as well as hardly worn school and play clothes for Tommy, almost eight and not the least bit picky about his wardrobe, which suited her just fine. Washability, wearablity, and price were the only factors she considered when parting with her hard-earned cash. Today’s quarry was a ten-speed bike she’d seen advertised in the local shopper.
The jangle of a phone from somewhere in the house gave her a start. Thinking it might be Mr. Hazlett, she followed the ringing into the den, answering it before it locked into the answering machine. “Hello?”
“Hello?” the voice on the other end said in the same questioning tone.
“May I help you?”
“Is this the Hazlett residence?”
“Yes, it is, but Mr. Hazlett isn’t here at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes, please. This is Eleanora Quimby. I had an appointment to interview with him about a job, but I can’t seem to find the house. I wonder if I might reschedule my appointment and get better directions?”
Vicky recalled her own confusion with directions. The ad in the shopper said 53 Kendrick Lane, but that address was a vacant lot. In the center of the lot stood a post with a For Sale sign swinging from its outstretched arm. On a hunch, she turned down the next street, counting off numbers until she came to 53. The name on the mailbox said Hazlett.
“Hello, hello?” the disembodied voice shouted in her ear.
“I’m sorry, Miss Quimby,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize, “but the position has already been filled. Thank you for calling though. Goodbye.”