Previously:
Lucia’s latest beating forced Carol to face how long she had looked away. Lucia survived, but the way she looked at Carol made one thing impossible to ignore: something between them had changed.
New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 4: Neither Pure nor Simple
Carol
To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development.
To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life.
~Oscar Wilde
Maybe I was simply stupid. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop fixating on Lucia’s new friend. Matteo.
I disliked the name immediately. It was way too Mexican and common, the sort of name shouted across crowded markets by women carrying plastic bags and irritation. Hardly the name of anyone important, much less someone worth rearranging Lucia’s life for. Not that I had done anything worth rearranging it for, either. But that was different.
Until this school year, Lucia left for school at the same time every morning. She came home after school, ate dinner, and studied at the kitchen table. Now she left earlier and returned later. Whenever Penelope or I tried to hang out with her, she buried herself in homework or claimed she was tired. The girl we called the Energizer Bunny had suddenly developed the constitution of a dying Victorian waif.
Andrea had become equally difficult to pin down. Our plans changed without warning. Telephone conversations ended before they had properly begun. He was busy or tired and usually expected somewhere else.
Suddenly, everyone had somewhere else to be.
Lucia’s secrecy and Andrea’s distance stole focus from the only future I could still control. Real estate.
I wouldn’t have to remain at home or marry some man simply to escape. Money would let me control my future. No woman should leave that in the hands of love.
That fall afternoon, I showed the Gonzales family a four-bedroom, two-bathroom home in University Heights. The exterior needed paint. Someone had carpeted both bathrooms. A brass chandelier hung over the dining room like a diseased crown. The bones were good, and the Gonzales family could afford it.
“Imagine the dining table here,” I said, standing beneath the chandelier. “You would still have room for a china cabinet along that wall.”
Mrs. Gonzales looked toward the kitchen. “The children could eat breakfast in there?”
“Absolutely. There’s space for a smaller table beside the window.”
Their youngest son ran through the doorway, followed by his sister. Laughter bounced through the empty rooms as they chose their bedrooms. The sound should have pleased me. It filled the house with the future they wanted. You sold people the dream they already carried in their heads.
My thoughts circled back to her. Every little change kept catching like a burr under my skin.
People guarded important information. Lucia’s truth would slip somewhere, eventually, when she forgot to protect it.
Mr. Gonzales asked something about the roof.
“Five years old,” I answered.
His expression changed. “The furnace,” he corrected. “I asked about the furnace.”
“Of course.” My smile arrived before the embarrassment could. “The furnace is five years old. The roof was replaced eight years ago.”
Before I could redirect him, the listing agent swept through the front door without knocking. She wore a navy suit pinned with a gold brooch and the tense smile of a woman who considered friendliness a charitable donation.
“Oh,” she said when she saw us. “I didn’t realize you were already here.”
“Our appointment began fifteen minutes ago.”
She looked past me at Mr. Gonzales. Then she raised her voice and drew out each word. “Did she explain the financing requirements?”
Racists thought volume could transform contempt into customer service.
I had heard that tone before, aimed straight at my father. His blond hair, white skin, and emerald-green eyes had done nothing for him. He dressed like a day laborer and spoke with a thick accent. That was all she saw.
Whenever my father asked a question, the woman rolled her eyes. She answered slowly, polishing each word with irritation, as though he were hard of hearing instead of Mexican.
The commission my father’s realtor earned stunned me more than her insults. Rude didn’t begin to cover it.
People could debate racism all they liked. I was practical. Racist agents created openings, and San Diego County had plenty of them. Most refused to learn basic Spanish. Understanding the culture required more effort than they intended to make.
I spoke the language. Better yet, I could change accents like jewelry.
“Mrs. Gonzales and I have already discussed the loan,” I told the listing agent. “They qualify.”
A brief smile touched Mrs. Gonzales’s mouth.
The other woman glanced at her clipboard. “The seller is hoping for a conventional buyer.”
There it was. Women like her hid racism beneath respectable words. Conventional would do.
I smiled. “Fortunately, the seller is hoping to sell the house. My clients are prepared to make an offer.”
Silence settled between us. The listing agent studied me more carefully. She had mistaken the blond hair and tailored suit for softness. Many people did.
Stupid woman.
With my looks, I had learned to become whatever the moment required. To families like theirs, I was la güerita, the blond girl who respected the community and knew how to listen.
Building their trust wasn’t difficult. They carried my father’s hard work and the quiet dignity of people used to being underestimated. Their trust stirred a pride beneath my ambition, as though every house I sold vindicated him.
The listing agent opened her mouth again.
“Why don’t you give us a few minutes?” I asked.
Her smile tightened. “Of course.”
Once the front door closed behind her, Mrs. Gonzales exhaled. In Spanish, she said, “She thinks we can’t afford it.”
“She thinks too highly of herself,” I answered in the same language. “That is a more expensive problem.”
Mr. Gonzales laughed.
The tension broke exactly as intended.
Unethical? No. That was business. When the world left an opening, you stepped through it. Pride had fed no one.
Not that I worried about feeding myself. I didn’t even own a table. Soon enough, I would have one. Imported mahogany, naturally.
While the family examined the backyard, I called the office from the telephone mounted beside the kitchen pantry. The receptionist answered on the second ring.
“Any messages?”
“Two. Andrea called.”
My fingers tightened around the cord. “What did he say?”
“He can’t make dinner tonight. Something came up.”
Again.
The ache beneath my ribs returned, quick and humiliating. Andrea had been away for months. Now that he was home, he behaved as though spending time with me required congressional approval.
“And the second message?”
The receptionist hesitated. “Penelope called. She said to tell you Lucia went to the library.”
Papers rustled near the receiver. “Then she said, and I’m quoting, ‘Same old boring shit, so Ellie can stop asking everyone.’”
Heat climbed into my face. “Was that all?”
“She also said not to drive over there.”
I hung up before the receptionist could hear my answer.
The kitchen blurred at the edges, probably because of the poor lighting and hideous wallpaper. Andrea had canceled dinner. Lucia was in her favorite place with a collection of musty old books.
Neither fact should have concerned me. Andrea would apologize once he remembered his manners. Lucia could drown in her boring history books. Friendship did not mean ownership. I understood that better than most people.
Laughter burst through the open patio door. The Gonzales children raced inside. Their older daughter stopped beside me.
“Lucia, why don’t you look at the back bedroom?” I said, the wrong name already out.
The girl stared at me. “My name is Alicia.”
“Of course it is.” I smiled with all the confidence a lie required. “Lucia was the name of another client’s daughter. Forgive me.”
Alicia glanced toward her parents. Mr. Gonzales did not smile this time.
I had called his daughter by the wrong name again. Perhaps I had underestimated the damage.
“We should probably think about this house,” he said.
The sentence struck harder than it should have. I had spent hours building their future inside those walls, and one careless name had cracked the foundation.
Even then, I pictured Lucia sitting beside a young man. Given the library, he was probably Asian, with dark eyes and a voice trained not to disturb anyone. The image arrived without permission.
Focus.
“I understand,” I said. “Buying a home deserves thought.”
Mrs. Gonzales touched her husband’s hand. “The payment would still be less than the other house?”
“Yes.”
I let embarrassment color my voice. Blushing on command helped. “The asking price exceeds what the house’s condition supports. Whatever her agent suggests, the seller knows that. Last month, a house two streets away sold for less, and it had a renovated kitchen. I recommend offering below asking. We request help with closing costs. They may refuse. If they do, we walk away.”
I opened my folder on the kitchen counter and placed the comparable sales in front of them. Mr. Gonzales examined the page.
Numbers never cared about names.
“Do you think they’ll accept?” he asked. His glance moved quickly to his wife, who loved the house.
“Nine weeks on the market gives us leverage.” Confidence returned to my voice, smooth and expensive. “They’ll negotiate.”
Mrs. Gonzales looked through the doorway toward the dining room. Her youngest son stood beneath the brass chandelier, spinning in circles. She placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“The children like it.”
“Children rarely lie about houses,” I said with a smile. Adults, on the other hand, lied constantly. Usually to themselves.
Andrea’s family had opened the doors of the University City real estate office for me. Wealthy people performed favors like that without a second thought, sparing girls like me from clawing our way inside.
I was the one who worked my ass off once I crossed the threshold. When the agents tried to use my “special skills” in the Hispanic community without compensation, Andrea pointed out that no one respected free labor. I negotiated a percentage of their commission for every favor or sale.
I created a business plan and learned how to market myself. Work claimed my weekends and most evenings, a brutal sacrifice considering the social calendar I preferred to maintain.
The other agents knew I worked harder than they did. They respected me for it, even when they didn’t particularly like me.
Respect was better.
I was closing my own deals now. Surprisingly, I didn’t merely enjoy it. I loved it.
Earning real money gave me power. Every commission bought another inch of distance from anyone who thought they could decide my future.
The first locked door would be the two-bedroom Craftsman cottage in Hillcrest I had been watching. A retired Navy officer owned it and wanted several thousand dollars above market value. Most people fixated on the price or complained about the musty collection of mementos cluttering the rooms. I saw the location.
One bedroom would be mine. The second could serve as an office at first. Later, perhaps, it might belong to someone who needed a quiet place to study. Someone who worked too hard, slept too little, and deserved a door she could close.
I didn’t examine that thought too closely. Some blueprints worked better without an audience.
After the cottage came rental properties. Passive income, baby. Then I would open my own real estate office.
Not Elena Carolina Herrera Agency. Please. People with serious money did not hand it to a woman whose name sounded like it came printed on a county assistance form.
Carol Ellis Properties sounded polished and trustworthy, expensive without trying too hard.
Easy peasy, right?
Mr. Gonzales and I scheduled an appointment to write the offer the following morning. I would have to miss class. That didn’t bother me. Cs still earned degrees, and the degree was all I wanted.
The rest I intended to buy for myself.
I could admit I had hit a few bumps on the road. Fixing my current “little” mistakes would cost me several hours, several apologies, and what pride I had left. I still wanted Andrea. More importantly, I needed the sale.
Outside, sunlight struck the windshield hard enough to make me squint. The office lay in one direction. Home waited in the other.
La Jolla University library sat nowhere near either one. The steering wheel had apparently made the decision without consulting me. I would deal with its insubordination later.
Efficiency, I decided.
Lucia had already consumed more of my attention than she deserved. One conversation would allow me to dismiss her properly. A woman could call a lie whatever she pleased, provided she delivered it with enough confidence.
Author’s note
Discrimination becomes easier to excuse when everybody still gets what they came for.
An immigrant can find work or buy a house and still leave the encounter carrying something he never agreed to purchase. The other person gets what matters to the transaction, whether that means labor, business, or money. Because nobody refused service outright, everyone can pretend the system worked. The humiliation remains conveniently off the receipt.
An accent can make someone question competence they would otherwise assume. It can also provoke impatience with questions a native speaker could ask without consequence. A foreign name or appearance may trigger assumptions before anyone knows where the person was born, how long he has lived here, or whether he is a citizen.
Discrimination does not require coherent logic. Someone who resents immigrants may still hire one when the work needs doing. A business owner can depend on customers whose accents irritate him, then complain about immigrants over dinner. Economic self-interest has never required ideological consistency. Bigotry becomes remarkably adaptable when money enters the room.
The person receiving that contempt has to manage it while completing whatever brought him there. Challenging the treatment may jeopardize something he needs, so disrespect becomes another cost he has to calculate.
An immigrant may depend on the job or need the professional sitting across from him to finish the work. Walking away means starting over and hoping the next person hides the contempt better. A complaint can also make him look difficult in a culture already prepared to interpret his frustration as evidence that he does not belong. Silence can resemble submission when someone else never has to pay for the alternative.
That is the discrimination I wanted underneath Chapter 5. Carol’s father participates fully in the transaction, enough for his realtor to profit from him. His money earns her commission without earning him the ordinary respect she would extend to someone she considered her equal.
She can treat him as though he barely belongs and still take the check.
Apparently his money speaks excellent English.
Sources
U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. “National Origin Discrimination.”
U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. “EEOC Disappointed in Supreme Court Decision Not to Hear Speak-English-Only Work Rule Case.”
U.S. Government Accountability Office. Employer Sanctions and the Question of Discrimination. 1990.
What did you think when Carol turned the car toward the library?
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Thank you. My mom - a child immigrant from Mexico to Iowa - and I used to clean houses together in my small town. This really hit home for me. 🙏🏻🦋🏆 Adelante.