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Maya lived with Peter for fourteen years without God’s or Dade County’s blessing. When Peter died, and his three daughters flew in and divided the property—the art, the furnishings, even the clothing—she held back tears until they left, then cried abundantly in the mornings when his death seemed most impossible, a nightmare carried into day.
       His ocean-view condo, infinity pool in front and swim-up bar in back, was sold. Maya returned to her rundown Miami bungalow, the floor collapsing beneath her grief because termites had eaten the joists. Sea air pushed through the cracked living-room windows. She covered them with butcher paper, casting a pall over the small room.
       She moved back in with few possessions, the adjustable bed she’d shared with Peter that he died in, a rug she’d taken before his children arrived. Small compensation for counting pills and spooning applesauce into a toothless hole
       Maya hired a contractor to repair the floor in the bungalow. Alberto wasn’t a young man, but he combed his hair in the style of the young, applying mousse that appeared as small clouds of white foam against his unnaturally black hair, which he wore long and wrapped behind his ears. His khaki shirt fit snugly.
       Sitting at a weathered pine table, spinning the nub of a pencil, Maya reviewed the estimate he had given her. “It costs too much.”
       “It costs what it costs. You can make payments.”
       “Make payments with what?”
       He looked through the bedroom door and pointed at the adjustable bed with massage settings. “You can give me that.”
       The couch was a sleeper with springs that complained, but it would do. Alberto got to work pulling up slats in the living-room floor.
       Only sixty-five, twenty years younger than Peter, Maya had some beauty left. She was slim and compact with black kinky hair that brushed the small of her back, but she vowed she would never be with another man. It had taken too much out of her to love Peter.
       They had met shortly after Peter’s wife died when he was looking for someone to cook for him. The extra money appealed to her. She won him over with her fried plantains and rice con gandules. The bedroom wasn’t far from the kitchen.
       She had fallen for his wry, democratic charm, for the way he lifted his trimmed gray eyebrows when she entered a room, as if her very existence was an agreeable surprise. Doormen, shoeshine men asked after Peter. But his personality, like his body, withered after the stroke. Even as she sponged and turned him, her feelings for him never lessened.
       Maya received Social Security from her time working in a hospital, making calls to collect bills from people as poor as herself. She had worked there for twenty years, quitting after she moved in with Peter. The government check lasted half the month. Then she joined lines at soup kitchens alongside other retirees who stared hopelessly into orange plastic trays. In the windowless YMCA basement, Maya hid behind oversize sunglasses and mumbled thanks to the servers.
       She had forgotten how to live without money, forgotten the racks of expired bread and overripe bananas in the back of the supermarket, and government programs that could pay for her eyeglasses. It seemed unfair to have to learn all that again when learning no longer came easily.
       Her time of eating filet mignon and drinking vintage Tuscan wines with Peter was over. She thought often of his airy apartment, his startling art—giant frogs leaping about in one painting, a fat man and woman dancing in another. She had pushed his wheelchair into galleries where he was greeted by name: Mr. Drayson. He pointed to what he liked. The staff overlooked Maya, until Peter asked her opinion. Then they rushed to get her a glass of water to match his, and she observed their confusion over who and what she was. She drank, though she wasn’t thirsty, hiding her face behind the glass until her anger passed.
       His daughters never visited, not until he was dying. Then they came and cried and read the will and stopped crying.  
Maya slept fitfully on the couch and woke irritated the next morning. It was not quite seven o’clock when she walked to the Holy Family Catholic Church, passing a check-cashing place and a cell-phone store, metal shutters still down for the night. A barefoot woman curled up in a doorway, likely sleeping but possibly dead. Afraid to get too close, Maya couldn’t tell. The air hung motionless, smelling of the sea and stale garbage.
       At church she arranged to have a Mass said for Peter, though he was an atheist. She dropped a dollar in the plate and cursed Peter for not marrying her or at least leaving her something so she wouldn’t have to rely on charity. She confessed.
       “Anger is a venial sin,” the young priest said.
       “What if it’s justified?”
       Maya remembered why she rarely went to church. She clutched the narrow shelf in the confessional. “He hid our relationship from his children.”
       “No good comes from living together without the holy sacrament.” The priest spoke quickly, as if a line of parishioners were waiting to confess, but in truth the church was almost empty. No one cared about the poor, not even the priest, who wore Armani shoes and a bright collar.
       When she got home, Alberto was working. Only the top of his head showed above the hole he had excavated. Sawdust littered his hair.
       “I almost fell in last night.” She sat on the couch.
       He looked up from the hole. “You wouldn’t be the first.” Dirt lodged in the wrinkles next to his eyes. His face was as round as a tortilla.
       “What about some cones? Like the ones on the highway.”
       “I’d have to lift them from a construction site.”
       She rested her head against the wall and contemplated the ceiling paint peeling in husks. “This house needs to be painted.”
       “You hiring me for another job?”
       “I had only one bed.” She looked into the empty bedroom.  
       “What did you do for a living?”
       “I collected bills for the hospital.”
       Alberto scratched his stomach. “I called the hospital once. When my wife was dying. They gave us a payment plan, but they wouldn’t cut the bill.”
       “If it was up to me, I would have cut your bill.”
       Alberto shook his head. “You say that now. But people like power when they have it.”
       “Don’t hold it against me.”
       “Maybe you could collect bills for me. I’ll give you ten percent. Before you know it, you’ll have enough money for painting.”
       Alone that night, Maya remembered the early years with Peter when he had teeth and his body was capable of pleasing her. Once he took her to a dinner party where waiters in tuxedos served steaming lobster out of the shell. He dipped the flesh in butter and fed it to her, unmindful of sideways looks from other guests. She was excited by his attentions but embarrassed he had introduced her simply as Maya—not wife, or girlfriend, or even the lesser friend. Was it her imagination or did her skin grow darker among that crowd? The other women wore heavy jewels as if unaware of them.
       When they returned from dinner, they sat in the living room opposite each other on white leather chairs. Elbows on his knees, Peter stared at the ebony floor and told her how he had worked throughout college as a busboy in an Upper East Side restaurant favored by his Columbia classmates. “You can’t imagine the things they left for me to clean up,” he whispered.
       He rarely spoke of anything but his success. Maya mourned his humiliation but was secretly pleased he shared it with her.
       Now she climbed off the worn fabric couch, hands pressed to her stomach. It was the fifteenth of the month. Her Social Security check wouldn’t arrive until the twentieth. She brewed a pot of coffee and drank three cups.
       The next morning Alberto arrived late, his pallor yellow, his hair in disarray.
       “Do you want some coffee?” she asked.
       “My wife visited me in my sleep. She hit me with a hammer for cheating on her. I told her when you work in houses where women are home, you are bound to end up in bed with them.”
       “What did she say?”
       “She kept beating me.” He seemed reluctant to climb into the hole. “Why don’t I measure for painting? Then, if you get some money, you’ll know what it costs.”
       “Measure anything you want.”
       He extracted a tape measure, a pencil, and a notepad from his toolbox. He put on glasses held together with copper wire and worked out the numbers. After a while—longer than necessary, it seemed— he told her what it would cost.
       “Now I know,” she said. “Now you know.”
       He resumed his work and she heard the electrical saw cutting out diseased wood and smelled sawdust and mud. The hammer tapped in healthy pine joists, which had their own smell, optimistic, like you would expect from something recently alive.
       Alberto’s notes were on the table, showing the individual room measurements he had taken. But he hadn’t factored in the cost of paint or totaled anything. Instead, he had sketched the living room, the paper over the cracked windows and a gaping hole in the floor.
       He had drawn her sitting on the couch, a cup of coffee in hand, her hair pinned back (though she was wearing it down) to accentuate her cheekbones. As for the estimate, he’d apparently made it up. She tore the sketch out of his notebook, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash. It was a flattering portrait, but she was tired of men deceiving her.
       That afternoon, Alberto finished the foundation and rebuilt the floor with weathered boards the owners of another house had wanted removed. He sanded the surface so Maya wouldn’t get splinters. The wood was gray and pocked with small knotholes, rough despite the sanding. Maya couldn’t smell it at all. But it was sturdy, and for that she was grateful.
       In the kitchen, Alberto lingered over a glass of ice water. He scratched his forehead, licked his lips, and pressed the glass to his cheek. Maya could tell what was coming but didn’t encourage it. “Why don’t I take you to dinner?” he said.
       She agreed because she was hungry. She wished he would take a shower, but he led her straight to his truck.
       He opened the passenger door and cleared the front seat of a saw and termite spray. It had been a long time since Maya had hoisted herself into a truck, and blood rushed to her head from the exertion. Peter had a BMW and a driver who opened the door for her.
       Alberto drove to a Mexican restaurant nearby. “This was my wife’s favorite restaurant.”
       Maya didn’t say anything. Men didn’t have any sense of what a woman wanted to hear. Not even Alberto, who wanted to get into every woman’s bed.
       Above their booth, a yellow bulb flickered in a tin wall sconce. Maya ordered chalupas with beef. When they came, she took a deep breath and a large bite and patted the sides of her mouth to keep the beef from leaking out. It felt good to be sitting opposite a man, even if the man had sawdust in his hair. So many of her meals these days were taken alone or among people she didn’t know.
       She had ordered the grande, so she would have leftovers for the next day. With great effort, she refrained from eating it all. She asked the waitress for another basket of chips and a refill of Coke.
       When it came, Alberto lifted his red plastic cup. “To forgetting the dead!”
       Maya knew then Alberto’s wife had been at the dinner. She raised her cup to be polite.
       After the meal, Alberto dropped her at her house. “Can I take you out again?”
       She looked at his stained pants and calculated how long it would be before her next Social Security check ran out. “Call me in a few weeks.” She planned to dress like a nun.
       She swept, mopped the floor, and rolled out the rug. Perhaps she could trade the rug for new windowpanes. She would call Alberto and ask him. And maybe she would do collections for him. People should pay their bills. It wasn’t her fault if they didn’t have money.
       The next day, Maya and Alberto talked, and Alberto brought over a list of clients whose accounts were more than ninety days past due.
       “Why don’t you have them pay before you do the work?”
       “They pay half up front, for materials. They don’t want to give me that. They look at me and see a thief.”
       Maya nodded and sighed. When Peter’s daughter Gwendolyn had realized Maya shared Peter’s bed, she accused Maya of trying to steal the estate. But later, after Gwendolyn read the will, she took Maya’s hands. “We’re so grateful for your service,” she said, her smile bright and hard. The word service clattered around Maya’s brain. Light reflecting off Gwendolyn’s teeth blinded her. If there had been a theft, Maya had not committed it.
       When Alberto left, Maya looked at the list of deadbeat customers and realized she was back where she’d started, except she was older and instead of the hospital to back her up, she had only a coscolino like Alberto. In her dreams, Peter continued to pay for groceries with credit cards whose limits were never reached. But in daylight, her pantry was empty. She had always assumed Peter would take care of her, and the fact that he hadn’t made her wonder what they had been doing together all those years and whether what felt to her like love to him had felt like—what? It was the kind of thinking that could drive a person crazy.
       She waited until evening to phone the first customer on the list. “Mr. Alexi?”
       “Yes?” His voice was calm and put Maya at ease. Perhaps the work would be easier than she expected.
       “I’m calling about the tile job Alberto Salazar did for you last spring.”
       “Who is this?” he demanded.
       She straightened her blouse. “My name is Maya. I do collections for Alberto. You owe him six hundred dollars.”
       “I don’t owe that son of a bitch a penny. He slept with my daughter. She’s only twenty.”
       Maya swallowed. “A contract is a contract.”
       “Who are you? Are you his wife? Why do you let him run around like that?”
       “I’m a widow.”
       “You should work for someone else.” He hung up.
       Maya crossed his name off the list. She got herself a glass of water and looked at the ceiling. She imagined it smooth and white.
       The next call was similar. She reached a man who said Alberto shouldn’t be allowed around women. Maya wondered why Alberto hadn’t made a pass at her. She didn’t want to sleep with him, but still.
       She made several more calls that evening.
        A week later, Alberto came to do the windows. He had already collected the rug. He
brought new panes with him.
       She told him the collections were not going well. “You should wait to sleep with them until you get paid.”
       “It would be wrong to plan it. Worse than getting caught up in the moment. Besides, I’m only attractive when I’m working.”
       It was true. Alberto’s nose was long and his torso was short. His face was leathered and covered with spots from working in the sun. But when he worked, and the muscles on his arms and back flexed, and tools whirred and things got fixed, he seemed powerful and appealing.
       Peter had never fixed anything. Even when he was younger and stronger, he hired workers. He called the building maintenance man to change light bulbs. He had his business manager hook up the cable TV.
       Alberto took down a window frame and set it on the table, which he had covered with brown paper. He hammered out cracked panes and scraped away dried putty.
       Maya stretched her toes and wished she could run them through the rug’s thick pile. She went into the kitchen to continue the collection calls.
       “Mrs. Aguilera? How are you today?”
       “No thanks.” A television was playing in the background. The woman was at best half listening to Maya.
       Maya kicked the table leg. She raised her voice. “I’m not selling anything.”
       “I’m not interested in taking a survey.”
       Maya breathed deeply and tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. “I work for Alberto Salazar. He rebuilt your shower last year.”
       “Oh! Alberto. He did a beautiful job. I couldn’t be happier. I’m thinking of having him do more, uh, work for me. Is there a problem?” She lowered the volume on the television.
       “It seems the two-thousand-dollar balance on the account was never paid.”
       “I’m terribly sorry. My husband must have forgotten. I’ll put a check in the mail today. I could bring it to his house if he’d like.”
       “Mail will be fine.”
       So that was what it would take. She would have to talk to the women. Thinking about it made her feel like she had eaten spoiled empanadas. Nevertheless, she would do it. She drank a cup of black tea and made a few more calls, marking the results on the spreadsheet Alberto had given her.
       She rinsed out her cup and went into the living room to observe his progress.
       He pressed fresh putty into a window frame and evened it out with his gloved finger before pushing a new pane into place. He nodded at Maya. “Want to try? Then when it breaks again, you’ll know how to fix it.”
       “Is it going to break again?”
       Maya didn’t want to fix it. She wanted Peter to call someone. She had changed his diapers, run his food through a blender.
       “What’s wrong with me?” Maya asked.
       Alberto looked up from his work. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re like the Roma tomatoes in my garden. Ripe and firm.”
       “But you keep your distance.”
       Alberto took off his safety glasses, wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.  “You’re thinking about someone else. He’s always in front of your eyes.”
       “I can’t help it.” Beyond a hole in the wall where a window had been, a screaming blue jay chased a sparrow. “I want to kill him.”
       “He’s dead already.”
       “Did you want to kill your wife?”
       “I wanted to kill her while she was dying. She was suffering, and everyone else, my kids, were suffering with her. Then, after she died, I wanted her back even for a few minutes.”
       Alberto began to rehang the window frame with its new panes. “Don’t wash them for a week.”
       The cloudy windows were a disappointment. Maya thought she would have clear windows that day to console her for the loss of the rug. She had almost nothing left of Peter.
       That night Maya paced her small house. She resented Alberto for taking her bed and her rug. She had made up the couch but didn’t want to get in. She examined Alberto’s hammer, which he had forgotten. It was an old hammer, worn at the head, the wood handle discolored. He was not a rich man, though he was richer than she was. Everyone was.
       She woke in the middle of the night and called Gwendolyn, who lived in Wisconsin. “I was his wife,” Maya said.
       “Who is this?” She was half asleep, her voice thick.
       “I was his wife.” Maya grabbed the hammer.
       “You were his housekeeper.” Now awake, Gwendolyn sounded resigned, as if she had been waiting for Maya’s call and was relieved to finally get it.
       “That’s what he told you, but I was his wife.” The moon appeared as a smudge through her windows.
       “His wife was my mother. She died fifteen years ago.”
       “He took me into his bed.”
       “Did he marry you?”
       “I took care of him.” She raised the hammer and considered throwing it through a window if only to see the moon more clearly. But she had given up the rug for the windows. Gwendolyn hung up.
       A week later Maya received a letter from Gwendolyn’s lawyer. The gold letterhead was raised; the paper was fine and had a watermark Maya puzzled over. The letter warned her not to contact Gwendolyn or any of Peter’s children again. The attorney noted that certain items had disappeared from Peter’s apartment; the children had ignored the thefts, but their attitudes could change.
       Maya crumpled the letter, then straightened it, then crumpled and straightened it again. She put it in the drawer in the kitchen where she kept things she didn’t know where to keep. She called Alberto and told him about the letter. 
       “Don’t mess with white people,” he said.
       “He was my husband.”
       “I know.”
       “Do you want to take me out to dinner?”
       “I like that Mexican place, but I don’t want to hear about your wife.”
       “Okay. Don’t order enough for two days. I’ll take you out again if you like.”
       When he picked her up, he was wearing clean pants.
       “Did you work today?” she asked.
       “I finished early.” He glanced around the room. “The windows look nice.”
       “I cleaned them with vinegar.”
       Alberto opened his wallet and handed her a check for two hundred dollars. “Your pay.”
       As she folded it and put it in her purse, she thought about the mangoes and oranges she would buy. She could already feel the juices running down her chin, the fibers stuck between her teeth.

© R.L. Maizes

This digital version of “Collections” appears in The Barcelona Review with kind permission of the author and publisher. It appears in the collection We Love Anderson Cooper, by R. L. Maizes, published by Celadon Books, (c) 2019.  Book ordering available through and

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