nodded. She had never picked up a tennis racket in her life.
“We can have people stay in the guesthouse. Important people.” Kenny was on a roll. “People from New York!”
“I have relatives in New York,” Gracie said, perking up. Kenny didn’t respond.
“Jaden’s room is downstairs and on the other side of the house,” she heard herself pleading. “I won’t be able to hear her at night.” The thought of her baby so far away panicked her.
“That’s what they have monitors for,” Kenny said. “C’mon, honey, this is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve worked so hard for. Why can’t you be happy for me?”
Gracie had thought about this. Why couldn’t she be happy for him? Why couldn’t she be happy? What was wrong with her? Didn’t everyone want a house with a pool and a tennis court? Weren’t they living the American Dream?
“It’s beautiful,” she said, glaring at the chandelier above their heads as he stooped over her and hugged her.
“I can’t wait to have people over,” he said. “Hey, you can brush up on your tennis—no excuses!”
Gracie was secretly suspicious of all “rich kid” sports—tennis,horseback riding, swimming outside of a community pool—she found solace in cleaving to her “raised in borderline poverty” status. Living in a multimillion-dollar spec house in Brentwood would make it harder for Gracie to maintain her “waiting for the revolution” stance.
The Rockingham house was supposed to be Modern Spanish, but it veered more into Modern Office Building with Spanish moldings. Everything about it was new, down to the week-old grass on the front lawn. Her first twenty-four hours in the house felt like an episode of
Rich Folks’ Survivor.
On her first night in the McMansion—Kenny was out of town attending a premiere in New York (with all the Important People)—Gracie had not mastered the ne plus ultra, expensive alarm system. The system went off eight times in a span of two hours, driving Gracie out of her mind and her bed. She wound up begging the befuddled security guards walking down her driveway to gun her down as she ambled blearily, wearing the flannel pajamas she only wore when Kenny was out of town.
“Never get rich,” she warned the security guards, “they’ll force you to get a security system.” She never used the security system again. The dirty little secret of the wealthiest enclaves is that no one knows how to use their elaborate security systems (and everyone has ten-pound dogs).
Everything that could go wrong in the house did from the electrical system to the technologically advanced dishwasher to every one of the six toilets. The lighting system itself was so complex that on some nights Gracie was driven to tears, wondering how to get a lamp on so she could read. Outside security lights would come on for no reason. And forget the entertainment system. Gracie could never get any one of their eight television sets to work off of the fancy ten-poundremotes. If she managed to turn on a TV, the volume refused to budge.Worse were the times she could never get it off again.
The first week, Gracie wandered the halls, wondering how she would keep such a massive place clean. Her housekeeper, Ana, the one who’d been with them since Jaden was born, had taken one look at the house and almost fainted.
“You need more people, missus,” Ana said.
“No kidding,” Gracie replied. “You know anyone?”
Thus, the house became a Rockingham El Salvador. Ana and her two sisters came to work, keeping the 8,000-squarefoot house spick-and-span, babysitting Jaden, cooking in case Kenny’s friends dropped by for dinner or a Saturday-afternoon tennis game. These should have been the good old days, the salad days.
So why did Gracie feel so wilted?
“You need to find something to do,” Kenny said one morning as he dressed for work. “I have a purpose, I have something that makes me happy—my job—you need to find a purpose.”
“I have
“We can have people stay in the guesthouse. Important people.” Kenny was on a roll. “People from New York!”
“I have relatives in New York,” Gracie said, perking up. Kenny didn’t respond.
“Jaden’s room is downstairs and on the other side of the house,” she heard herself pleading. “I won’t be able to hear her at night.” The thought of her baby so far away panicked her.
“That’s what they have monitors for,” Kenny said. “C’mon, honey, this is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve worked so hard for. Why can’t you be happy for me?”
Gracie had thought about this. Why couldn’t she be happy for him? Why couldn’t she be happy? What was wrong with her? Didn’t everyone want a house with a pool and a tennis court? Weren’t they living the American Dream?
“It’s beautiful,” she said, glaring at the chandelier above their heads as he stooped over her and hugged her.
“I can’t wait to have people over,” he said. “Hey, you can brush up on your tennis—no excuses!”
Gracie was secretly suspicious of all “rich kid” sports—tennis,horseback riding, swimming outside of a community pool—she found solace in cleaving to her “raised in borderline poverty” status. Living in a multimillion-dollar spec house in Brentwood would make it harder for Gracie to maintain her “waiting for the revolution” stance.
The Rockingham house was supposed to be Modern Spanish, but it veered more into Modern Office Building with Spanish moldings. Everything about it was new, down to the week-old grass on the front lawn. Her first twenty-four hours in the house felt like an episode of
Rich Folks’ Survivor.
On her first night in the McMansion—Kenny was out of town attending a premiere in New York (with all the Important People)—Gracie had not mastered the ne plus ultra, expensive alarm system. The system went off eight times in a span of two hours, driving Gracie out of her mind and her bed. She wound up begging the befuddled security guards walking down her driveway to gun her down as she ambled blearily, wearing the flannel pajamas she only wore when Kenny was out of town.
“Never get rich,” she warned the security guards, “they’ll force you to get a security system.” She never used the security system again. The dirty little secret of the wealthiest enclaves is that no one knows how to use their elaborate security systems (and everyone has ten-pound dogs).
Everything that could go wrong in the house did from the electrical system to the technologically advanced dishwasher to every one of the six toilets. The lighting system itself was so complex that on some nights Gracie was driven to tears, wondering how to get a lamp on so she could read. Outside security lights would come on for no reason. And forget the entertainment system. Gracie could never get any one of their eight television sets to work off of the fancy ten-poundremotes. If she managed to turn on a TV, the volume refused to budge.Worse were the times she could never get it off again.
The first week, Gracie wandered the halls, wondering how she would keep such a massive place clean. Her housekeeper, Ana, the one who’d been with them since Jaden was born, had taken one look at the house and almost fainted.
“You need more people, missus,” Ana said.
“No kidding,” Gracie replied. “You know anyone?”
Thus, the house became a Rockingham El Salvador. Ana and her two sisters came to work, keeping the 8,000-squarefoot house spick-and-span, babysitting Jaden, cooking in case Kenny’s friends dropped by for dinner or a Saturday-afternoon tennis game. These should have been the good old days, the salad days.
So why did Gracie feel so wilted?
“You need to find something to do,” Kenny said one morning as he dressed for work. “I have a purpose, I have something that makes me happy—my job—you need to find a purpose.”
“I have
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