I've been lucky during this economic downturn just because I had a plan for retirement five years ago. All the savings went into money making assets -- a small, low end mobile home park and some low end rentals. Now I'm widowed with no debt, a big home and good health. For the last two years I've tried to help the local food bank by growing vegetables in the garden and greenhouse but this year people kept breaking in, taking unripe food and causing lots of damage.
For five days, I'd been working to set up an older mobile home, repair it and get it ready to rent to some needy couple. I had not been home to check voice mail on the land line; most people call me on the cell phone. There were a dozen calls, all asking for some kind of help, a job or a place to live. One was from my deceased wife's former three-day-a-week live-in nurse, Millie. She is a cute 25 year-old, caring, hard-working, blonde, who had an abusive significant other and a six-year old. Her message was filled with worry and panic:
"Jim, Stan finally messed up big time and is in prison for at least five years. I've lost my job at the University hospital and am in real financial trouble. I'm sorry for calling you about this but I don't have any other options."
Her cell telephone would not accept my message, so I decided to drive to her apartment. She had moved, but a neighbor suggested checking a rundown RV park a couple of miles away.
Millie's new house was little more than an old Volkswagen van with a tent on the back. The Northwest in January is no place for that kind of living. Even now it was raining, cold and muddy. She wasn't home; I waited.
In about an hour, Millie got out of a pickup driven by a dirty man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Millie detested smoking. The man handed her three bills and they started arguing. Just like in the movies, a girl was getting cheated out of the agreed upon fee for some sexual service. Her clothes were not clean and by the time the truck roared away her hair was wet and she was soaked. She went to the manager's house, retrieved little Aaron and gave two of the bills to the woman at the door.
Millie's hands were trembling from the wet and the cold as I walked up behind her. She was explaining that she would walk to the store to get them something to eat and that Aaron had to stay in the camper. Aaron saw me first and called out, "Uncle Jim." Millie turned, burst into tears and collapsed into my arms. She was thin, needed a bath and near exhaustion.
wrapped Millie in my leather jacket and loaded her and Aaron into the car and drove them home.
I fed the bottomless boy while mom bathed and dressed in some of my wife's sweats and socks. I had not gotten rid of any of her stuff since she died a year and a half ago.
After food, idle chatter, hot coco, a couple of stiff drinks and Aaron falling asleep, Millie was not looking forward to talking.
"I saw you getting out of the pick-up. Are you taking precautions with your health?"
Millie began to cry and blushed in crippling embarrassment. "I look every day for work. I cared for two different people who did not pay me."
She cringed when she took a sip of her screw driver.
"Are you taking precautions?"
"Aaron has to eat."
"I did not judge you. I asked if you are playing it safe. You are a CNA, you know what I'm asking you."
"As much as I can afford and the assholes will do."
"Stay here a few days. We'll get you checked out and see if we can find you some work. I have plenty to keep you busy for a while."
For an hour, Millie cried and thanked me. Finally, she calmed down and watched some TV until I carried Aaron to her old rooms. "It seems like I'm coming home to my parents."
I smiled, glanced over her breasts and she blushed again. She knew I was a naughty old man. Many times, she had caught me admiring her bikini clad spinner body when she swam in the pool. She did not seem to mind. A few times I even felt she showed off and flashed me at breakfast. Maybe it was an accident and I just hoped she was flirting with me.
For two days, Millie helped me in the office and we cooked dinner together like we used to. Her initial blood work came back clean. Her van was out behind the garage. On the third evening, I asked, "Millie, will you talk with me after Aaron goes to bed? I want to get a few things out in the open."
Her affirmative answer was meek, like a little girl trying to avoid punishment. An hour later, I wanted to zip past the bad stuff.
"Millie, how long have you been hooking?"
She had not faced the words yet. The color drained from her face; she stammered and tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm not good at it. Nine or ten times, I've tried to earn money with my body. I've been roughed up twice, stiffed once and cheated twice."
I sat quietly.
"I thought it would be like the girls you used to see."
That surprised me. I made no secrets that twice a month I went to dinner with an escort and wound up at her in-call for an hour before I made it home. Still, I did not realize I was being scrutinized.
"Millie, I love the touch, taste, smell and companionship of women. When my wife got sick fifteen years ago, I lost one of my greatest delights. In time, my writing, art collecting, email friends and the escorts I visit became my sex life. Many testosterone charged young men and even some older guys really don't like women and get off on control or hurting."
"I learned that."
"Are you addicted to anything?"
"I don't take any drugs."
"How about meth? You are too thin."
"Some."
"You are young, healthy, sexy, you have Aaron and you are not afraid to work. Meth can really screw all of that up faster than anything else. You have a lot to lose."
Her jaws tightened. I knew when to stop. "I have plenty of writing to do tonight. You know where I'll be."
When I walked behind her, I touched her shoulder. She caught my hand, looked up at me and said, "Thank you."
"You are welcome, little one. We can get you on your feet again. Will you stay off the meth?"
"Yes."
About midnight, I took a break to get a glass of wine from the refrigerator. As I came out of the office, I saw a shadow flit from my bedroom door. About two, I checked my wife's jewelry box. Her favorite expensive ring was missing.
I had Denver omelets coming out of the pan when Millie and Aaron came into the kitchen the next morning.
"Sleep well?"
Aaron spoke for them. He had re-discovered the trashcan full of Hotwheel toys in the closet. He had two in each hand and some in his pockets. He wanted to tell me about all of them, all at once. When he scurried off after breakfast, I refilled Millie's coffee cup.
