RAYA BANKS

“Saints, angels and cherubs above, protect me from the evil eye,” I whispered the chant my mother had taught me back when I used to accompany her to the exquisite lots of the upstate houses where she worked.

Ma had never trusted them, the rich men with their luxury sports cars and polo shirts hugging their tight, muscular frames, or the snobbish women with their dye-streaked hairs piled high on their heads and their chests pushed so far out it was a wonder they could see an inch in front of them.

She thought them skanks, selfish bastards who couldn't spare a speck of concern if a child...