Statue, page 6
“My, that sounds interesting. Come in and tell me all about it. Would you like something to drink?”
Ceci sat down on the plush white couch. “Just water, please.” She told him the whole story, but he just looked mildly amused.
“Of course I don’t believe you. Your story is absurd. But stay here and we can pretend it’s real. I’m not ready to give you a million dollars, but I’d be glad to offer you some nice clothing and a place to stay.”
“I want my son back. I want my life back. Find
Dr. Chang. Make things right.”
Adrian took out his iPad and googled Dr. Chang. “Hmm, yes, there is a renowned scientist named Dr. Chang but it says nothing here about a time-travel belt. I’ll try to get in touch with him. Now, would you like to take a nap with me?”
“No, please, I want to find my son.”
The butler interrupted them. “Sir, see what is on television.” He pushed a button to turn on the television in the corner. A newscaster was saying, “We have just heard that Mr. Bower has received word that his wife is safe. He wants to thank everyone who has helped find her.” The butler pointed to the picture of the woman that appeared on the screen, a photograph of Ceci.
“Aha,” Adrian said. “I see you disappeared for awhile. Did you run away? Never mind. I know. You say you travelled through time. Whatever. But I’ll deliver you back to your husband. Unless you’d rather stay with me.”
“I don’t know that man. I can’t be married to someone I’ve never met.”
The newscaster was interrupted then by a news flash. “We have just heard that Mrs. Bower has left again for an unknown location.” Mr. Bower was shown then on a large front porch. “Please come home, Ceci. Michael and I miss you so much.” Another photograph came up on the TV screen. The newscaster said, “This is her son, Michael, who misses her desperately. He wants her home.” It was Adam! Of course she would go back to Mr. Bower if he had her son! But why were they calling him Michael?
Adrian phoned the TV station to tell Mr. Bower that he would see that she got home safely. Adrian’s driver delivered her to a large, newly-built house with a triple garage and a tower in Westchester County outside of the city. Mr. Bower stepped out the door, held his arms out, and rushed to embrace her. Ceci pulled back in confusion. She had never seen this man before. He was well-dressed in a beige suit and looked kind and rather scholarly with his dark-rimmed glasses.
“Are you okay? What happened? Where were you?” he asked her.
“I don’t remember anything.”
He pulled her into the hallway. A glittering chandelier swayed above them, and a curving staircase led to the upper floor.
“Where is Ad . . . Michael?”
“I’ll wake him. He has been so upset.”
A little boy appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mommy,” he called, and came running down, his arms outstretched.
She raced to him and picked him up, holding him close in her arms. “Are you okay, baby?” she said. “I am so sorry I worried you. I missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mommy. I’m glad you’re home. Will you tuck me in and read to me?”
“Of course. Lead the way.”
Michael held her hand, as they walked up the stairs, and led her to a large but cozy bedroom with posters of Star Wars characters on the walls.
“You love Star Wars, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mommy. We can read this Star Wars book. Or you can tell me a story that you’ve made up. I like those, too.”
She took the book and read to him, kissed him good night, and went downstairs, where Will Bower was waiting.
Everything returned to what was probably normal to this Ceci. She learned her way around the house. Her husband was a nice man—intelligent, generous, patient. He was a well-paid lawyer and she was a stay-at-home mom who was working on her accounting degree part-time. But Michael was just the same—he was Adam. How could that be?
Ceci was surprised to learn that Barbara was a lawyer and had never been a call girl. She tried to explain to Barbara what had happened, but Barbara thought that Ceci had had a head injury and did not believe her.
Day after day Ceci drove Michael to school and picked him up, directed the cleaners and the cook, worked on her degree on-line. She looked up Dr. Chang’s number and made an appointment, claiming to be a reporter who wanted to write about his research. They had coffee in the lobby of the building that housed his lab. He looked exactly as she remembered him.
“Are you working on anything really ground-breaking?” she asked.
He smiled. “Of course. But I can’t discuss it. It might not work, anyway.”
“Like a time-travel belt?” she asked.
“You have quite the imagination,” he said. “No, time travel isn’t really possible. Only in fiction.”
“Are you sure? Couldn’t it be possible someday?”
“Who knows? There is a fine line between fiction and reality, between the imaginary and the possible.”
“Would you tell me if you had invented, or were working on, a time-travel belt?”
“Probably not. But I will tell you that I am not. That is the truth. Why are you asking these questions?”
“Just curious,” she answered, and left.
Ceci thought about contacting Adrian Sylvester again, but was somewhat frightened of him, of what he might draw her into. And he really didn’t seem to know anything about the belt or to remember her at all.
Since it became more and more difficult to play the role of Will’s wife when she remembered nothing about their life together, she confessed that she did not remember him. She agreed to seeing a neurologist and a psychiatrist, but they could find nothing wrong with her brain. One day Will brought out their wedding album. How strange to see herself, all in white, while he put a ring on her finger. How strange to see her mother beside her, looking lovely in a blue dress. “What? Is my mother alive?”
“I’m sorry, honey. She died last year. You have missed her so much.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do miss her. Was she okay? I mean . . .”
“Was she on drugs? She beat that a long time ago.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. And my father?”
“He died years ago, working as a photographer covering the Vietnam War.”
“I knew that,” she said.
And then, in one picture, she was holding Adam . . . Michael. “Will,” she asked. “Was Michael born before we were married?”
“You don’t remember? My goodness. Of course, you don’t. You were a single mother when I met you. You would never tell me who his father was. But I have adopted him and love him just as much as if he’s my own.”
“Yes, I can tell that you are a great father.”
Will kissed her then. It felt nice, comforting.
Ceci decided to write a story about her past life, her years as a call girl, her financial independence, her life of adventure, the time-travel belt. No one would believe it. Everyone would think it all fantasy. While Michael was in school, she typed. She lost herself in the story. She called it “The Pleaser.” She sometimes wished that she could enter that world again, a world of adventures. She would bungee-jump with Adrian. She would travel to other times, see history in the making. She would see her mother and father when they were young and beautiful. She would dress in sparkly short skirts, tight halter tops, and stiletto heels. She would not obey the Adrian Sylvesters of the world, would use them just to have fun. She would please herself—in a world where Michael was named Adam, where they lived in a luxury apartment building, and where life was filled with the unexpected every single day.
“Tell me that story again, Mommy, the one about the time-travel belt, where the woman got to see her Mom and Dad when they were young but almost didn’t get back home to her little boy.”
Ceci smiled and told him her sanitized version of the story.
“I’m glad she got back, Mommy. Her little boy missed her so much.”
“And she missed him. She would never leave him.”
She kissed Michael good night, turned out the light, and went downstairs to have a cup of tea with her husband.
ORANGES
O
IT ALL STARTED with oranges. Oranges were the beginning of the end. Jeffrey came back to bed that morning carrying two juicy oranges. I was expecting coffee, eggs, and toast, but Jeffrey said this was just a start. “There is nothing more satisfying, more sensuous, than oranges in bed on a Sunday morning,” he said, grinning. All I could think of was the mess. That’s why I never eat oranges. Yes, they taste delicious, but they are far too messy and difficult to eat.
“Okay,” I said, “but why oranges?”
“Just think of that juice. We can eat and lick, kiss and . . . well, everything.”
“But I’ll have to wash the sheets afterwards,” I said. He looked so disappointed that I kicked the blankets off the bed and pushed the sheet down to the bottom, below our feet. I imagined orange juice all over my naked body—and his. Sticky, turning our skin yellow. It was not a good idea, I thought.
“Here.” He handed me one and started to peel the other one, dropping peels all over my pillow.
“C’mon. Start peeling,” he whispered.
So I peeled my orange half-heartedly and started to slurp the juices, chewing some pieces that broke off. When juice started dribbling down both of our chins, he moved closer and started kissing my lips, my chin, my eyes. I just couldn’t stand the sticky feeling and jumped up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t. I’m not into oranges. Not on my body. Or my sheets.”
“Okay,” he said. I hoped he’d follow me into the shower but he did not. When I went downstairs, I heard him washing up in the downstairs bathroom. He came out fully dressed. I was carrying the sheets and pillowcases to put them into the washer.
“I was going to cook breakfast,” he said, “but maybe you’re not into breakfast either. Are eggs too messy? Might coffee stain your cups?”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, and I was. “Here, I’ll make some eggs and you can fry the bacon.” We had a quiet breakfast, neither of us talking much.
I didn’t hear from him for several days, though I kept texting him. He usually came over after work and often spent the night, even on weeknights. And we always spent the entire weekend together. But the next weekend he still wasn’t answering my texts and phone calls.
“Please, Jeffrey,” I texted. “Forgive me. We can try again. I can learn to like oranges.”
He texted me then, saying he’d bring Chinese take-out. All through dinner, I could tell that he wanted to say something; he opened his mouth sometimes but then closed it again. I chattered on about work and the weather, but he was mostly silent. When it came time to go to bed, he put his coat on, said he had an appointment in the morning, and left.
I frantically called him all day Sunday, and finally, that night, he phoned me back. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” he said. “But I’ve found someone else.”
“Who is she?” I screamed. “How did you find someone so quickly? Has this been going on behind my back? I want to know who that hussy is!”
“I won’t tell you anything. Just forget about me.”
“But you asked me to marry you. We were planning our wedding and our children. What happened? I thought you loved me.”
“I did. But, well, we have different desires and goals.”
“Desires? Goals? I thought we had everything sorted out. We had agreed on so many things. On our whole life together.”
“Things change.” That was all he said before he stopped talking entirely, and I hung up. I cried for days. I couldn’t even go to work. Weeks went by. I didn’t get dressed, didn’t eat much, didn’t leave my house. Of course, my boss sent me an e-mail saying that he couldn’t keep my job open any longer. My friends stopped communicating with me, since I never responded and refused to see anyone. I lay there on the couch in my pajamas, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Jeffrey’s new girlfriend liked oranges in bed.
As I thought about her, I grew more and more angry. I had to know who she was. I would find out, would follow Jeffrey until I saw this new love of his, that whore. I jumped off the couch, threw off my pajamas, and headed for the shower.
I wore dark clothing that night, with a hood pulled over my head, as I stood outside his building, watching, waiting. I had parked my car a few blocks away so that he wouldn’t suspect I was nearby. His apartment window was dark so I guessed that he and his whore had gone out somewhere. When I saw a couple coming down the street, arms around each other, I recognized Jeffrey and knew that the woman in the dark raincoat must be that bitch. He took out his key and they entered the building. I snapped a photo with my phone but could see only their backs. I would come back in the morning to confront this monstrous woman.
The next morning was Sunday, so they were probably eating oranges in bed. At 2 pm the hussy came out on her own. This was my chance! I got out of my car and ran up to her as she came down the sidewalk. “You whore!” I called. “How dare you!”
She stopped and looked at me. I glared at her as we faced each other, gazed right into her eyes. Then I saw her clearly.
She was me.
She opened her mouth in a half-smile or grimace. I could see the orange stains on her teeth, pieces of oranges on her lips.
“You need to brush your teeth,” I said as I walked away.
CLEANER
O
HER NAME WAS Susan. We hired her on the recommendation of someone at the college where I taught folktales and ghost stories. I was told that she was an excellent cleaner—she would make everything spotless and lovely. Before she came for the first time, she e-mailed me a list of supplies we must buy: certain kinds of cleaning fluids, dusters, equipment, etc. She also demanded that we have certain foods in our refrigerator, since she had a health condition that necessitated she eat regularly, according to her special diet, and take frequent breaks. We complied and were waiting for her expectantly.
Susan was solid in build with short brown hair and freckled skin. She did not look ill. Her cheeks were rosy in a healthy way and she walked firmly in her well-made running shoes. Her capri jeans fit nicely, though she was a bit on the chubby side. She had brought some food with her to have on those breaks, though we had bought what she had requested, and she inspected our supplies as if she were an army sergeant inspecting her troops.
“I don’t like this brand of mop but it will do for today,” she said, sighing.
First she asked Greg, my husband, to pull out the refrigerator so that she could clean behind it. She was indeed thorough, scrubbing every tile vigorously for several minutes. Stopping every fifteen minutes for a break and eating her snack took time, of course, and she accusingly told us that she did not like the tofu we had bought for her.
Then, after three hours, she instructed Greg to push the refrigerator back into place, picked up her purse, and was ready to leave.
“That is $150 for today,” she said.
“But are you finished?” I was shocked, and not just at the price. She had done nothing except the floor behind the refrigerator.
“Of course. I’ll be back next week to do more of the kitchen floor. I’ll have this place scoured and sterilized in a few months.”
She looked down at the kitchen table and saw the photos of different breeds of dogs we had lined up there. “You aren’t thinking about getting a dog, are you?” she exclaimed.
“Well, we are looking into it.”
“Let me know if you do. I won’t be able to come here then. They are dirty creatures. And I’m allergic.”
I handed her the cash. She would take only cash. And said goodbye. She dashed out the door as if relieved to escape a prison.
Greg exploded with anger then, and continued complaining all through dinner. “But we’re having a dinner party in two weeks. I need to impress my boss and my colleagues! I thought the house would be spotless by then. This is ridiculous—and too expensive. Find someone else!”
“We have to give her a chance,” I said. “It’s too soon. Maybe she’ll do better next time.”
After dinner, he went immediately into his study and didn’t speak to me again until after we’d gotten into bed. “Okay, Carrie. One more chance. And I know it’s not your fault. I’m not angry with YOU. And I don’t want you to have to do all the cleaning yourself. Neither of us has the time. So we’ll try again, but I’ll be asking around for someone else. And who in the hell recommended her to you?”
I tried to remember. “I think it was one of the cleaners at the college,” I said sheepishly. “But I agree. Just one more try. I love you.”
He grunted, turned his back, and went to sleep.
But the next week was no better. Susan scrubbed half the kitchen floor so that it sparkled. The other half looked grimy and disgusting by contrast.
“Susan,” I said to her cautiously. “We’re having a dinner party next week. Do you think you could clean more of the house so that we’ll be ready for our guests?”
“I’m not a work horse, you know. Do you want a good job or not?” She took her money and stomped out of the house.
Greg and I argued all through dinner again, and I agreed to fire her next week but wanted to see if she in fact would clean the whole house for our party. Otherwise, the two of us, or probably I, would have to spend a day doing the work, on top of the cooking and all the preparations.
The next week, when she didn’t arrive for her 10 a.m. scheduled time, I waited until 11, then decided to e-mail her. She had already e-mailed me: “I will not be working for you any more. You do not meet my requirements as employers.”
I was so angry that I immediately wrote back: “Nor do you meet our requirements as our employee. I was going to fire you anyway.”
Ceci sat down on the plush white couch. “Just water, please.” She told him the whole story, but he just looked mildly amused.
“Of course I don’t believe you. Your story is absurd. But stay here and we can pretend it’s real. I’m not ready to give you a million dollars, but I’d be glad to offer you some nice clothing and a place to stay.”
“I want my son back. I want my life back. Find
Dr. Chang. Make things right.”
Adrian took out his iPad and googled Dr. Chang. “Hmm, yes, there is a renowned scientist named Dr. Chang but it says nothing here about a time-travel belt. I’ll try to get in touch with him. Now, would you like to take a nap with me?”
“No, please, I want to find my son.”
The butler interrupted them. “Sir, see what is on television.” He pushed a button to turn on the television in the corner. A newscaster was saying, “We have just heard that Mr. Bower has received word that his wife is safe. He wants to thank everyone who has helped find her.” The butler pointed to the picture of the woman that appeared on the screen, a photograph of Ceci.
“Aha,” Adrian said. “I see you disappeared for awhile. Did you run away? Never mind. I know. You say you travelled through time. Whatever. But I’ll deliver you back to your husband. Unless you’d rather stay with me.”
“I don’t know that man. I can’t be married to someone I’ve never met.”
The newscaster was interrupted then by a news flash. “We have just heard that Mrs. Bower has left again for an unknown location.” Mr. Bower was shown then on a large front porch. “Please come home, Ceci. Michael and I miss you so much.” Another photograph came up on the TV screen. The newscaster said, “This is her son, Michael, who misses her desperately. He wants her home.” It was Adam! Of course she would go back to Mr. Bower if he had her son! But why were they calling him Michael?
Adrian phoned the TV station to tell Mr. Bower that he would see that she got home safely. Adrian’s driver delivered her to a large, newly-built house with a triple garage and a tower in Westchester County outside of the city. Mr. Bower stepped out the door, held his arms out, and rushed to embrace her. Ceci pulled back in confusion. She had never seen this man before. He was well-dressed in a beige suit and looked kind and rather scholarly with his dark-rimmed glasses.
“Are you okay? What happened? Where were you?” he asked her.
“I don’t remember anything.”
He pulled her into the hallway. A glittering chandelier swayed above them, and a curving staircase led to the upper floor.
“Where is Ad . . . Michael?”
“I’ll wake him. He has been so upset.”
A little boy appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mommy,” he called, and came running down, his arms outstretched.
She raced to him and picked him up, holding him close in her arms. “Are you okay, baby?” she said. “I am so sorry I worried you. I missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mommy. I’m glad you’re home. Will you tuck me in and read to me?”
“Of course. Lead the way.”
Michael held her hand, as they walked up the stairs, and led her to a large but cozy bedroom with posters of Star Wars characters on the walls.
“You love Star Wars, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mommy. We can read this Star Wars book. Or you can tell me a story that you’ve made up. I like those, too.”
She took the book and read to him, kissed him good night, and went downstairs, where Will Bower was waiting.
Everything returned to what was probably normal to this Ceci. She learned her way around the house. Her husband was a nice man—intelligent, generous, patient. He was a well-paid lawyer and she was a stay-at-home mom who was working on her accounting degree part-time. But Michael was just the same—he was Adam. How could that be?
Ceci was surprised to learn that Barbara was a lawyer and had never been a call girl. She tried to explain to Barbara what had happened, but Barbara thought that Ceci had had a head injury and did not believe her.
Day after day Ceci drove Michael to school and picked him up, directed the cleaners and the cook, worked on her degree on-line. She looked up Dr. Chang’s number and made an appointment, claiming to be a reporter who wanted to write about his research. They had coffee in the lobby of the building that housed his lab. He looked exactly as she remembered him.
“Are you working on anything really ground-breaking?” she asked.
He smiled. “Of course. But I can’t discuss it. It might not work, anyway.”
“Like a time-travel belt?” she asked.
“You have quite the imagination,” he said. “No, time travel isn’t really possible. Only in fiction.”
“Are you sure? Couldn’t it be possible someday?”
“Who knows? There is a fine line between fiction and reality, between the imaginary and the possible.”
“Would you tell me if you had invented, or were working on, a time-travel belt?”
“Probably not. But I will tell you that I am not. That is the truth. Why are you asking these questions?”
“Just curious,” she answered, and left.
Ceci thought about contacting Adrian Sylvester again, but was somewhat frightened of him, of what he might draw her into. And he really didn’t seem to know anything about the belt or to remember her at all.
Since it became more and more difficult to play the role of Will’s wife when she remembered nothing about their life together, she confessed that she did not remember him. She agreed to seeing a neurologist and a psychiatrist, but they could find nothing wrong with her brain. One day Will brought out their wedding album. How strange to see herself, all in white, while he put a ring on her finger. How strange to see her mother beside her, looking lovely in a blue dress. “What? Is my mother alive?”
“I’m sorry, honey. She died last year. You have missed her so much.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do miss her. Was she okay? I mean . . .”
“Was she on drugs? She beat that a long time ago.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. And my father?”
“He died years ago, working as a photographer covering the Vietnam War.”
“I knew that,” she said.
And then, in one picture, she was holding Adam . . . Michael. “Will,” she asked. “Was Michael born before we were married?”
“You don’t remember? My goodness. Of course, you don’t. You were a single mother when I met you. You would never tell me who his father was. But I have adopted him and love him just as much as if he’s my own.”
“Yes, I can tell that you are a great father.”
Will kissed her then. It felt nice, comforting.
Ceci decided to write a story about her past life, her years as a call girl, her financial independence, her life of adventure, the time-travel belt. No one would believe it. Everyone would think it all fantasy. While Michael was in school, she typed. She lost herself in the story. She called it “The Pleaser.” She sometimes wished that she could enter that world again, a world of adventures. She would bungee-jump with Adrian. She would travel to other times, see history in the making. She would see her mother and father when they were young and beautiful. She would dress in sparkly short skirts, tight halter tops, and stiletto heels. She would not obey the Adrian Sylvesters of the world, would use them just to have fun. She would please herself—in a world where Michael was named Adam, where they lived in a luxury apartment building, and where life was filled with the unexpected every single day.
“Tell me that story again, Mommy, the one about the time-travel belt, where the woman got to see her Mom and Dad when they were young but almost didn’t get back home to her little boy.”
Ceci smiled and told him her sanitized version of the story.
“I’m glad she got back, Mommy. Her little boy missed her so much.”
“And she missed him. She would never leave him.”
She kissed Michael good night, turned out the light, and went downstairs to have a cup of tea with her husband.
ORANGES
O
IT ALL STARTED with oranges. Oranges were the beginning of the end. Jeffrey came back to bed that morning carrying two juicy oranges. I was expecting coffee, eggs, and toast, but Jeffrey said this was just a start. “There is nothing more satisfying, more sensuous, than oranges in bed on a Sunday morning,” he said, grinning. All I could think of was the mess. That’s why I never eat oranges. Yes, they taste delicious, but they are far too messy and difficult to eat.
“Okay,” I said, “but why oranges?”
“Just think of that juice. We can eat and lick, kiss and . . . well, everything.”
“But I’ll have to wash the sheets afterwards,” I said. He looked so disappointed that I kicked the blankets off the bed and pushed the sheet down to the bottom, below our feet. I imagined orange juice all over my naked body—and his. Sticky, turning our skin yellow. It was not a good idea, I thought.
“Here.” He handed me one and started to peel the other one, dropping peels all over my pillow.
“C’mon. Start peeling,” he whispered.
So I peeled my orange half-heartedly and started to slurp the juices, chewing some pieces that broke off. When juice started dribbling down both of our chins, he moved closer and started kissing my lips, my chin, my eyes. I just couldn’t stand the sticky feeling and jumped up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t. I’m not into oranges. Not on my body. Or my sheets.”
“Okay,” he said. I hoped he’d follow me into the shower but he did not. When I went downstairs, I heard him washing up in the downstairs bathroom. He came out fully dressed. I was carrying the sheets and pillowcases to put them into the washer.
“I was going to cook breakfast,” he said, “but maybe you’re not into breakfast either. Are eggs too messy? Might coffee stain your cups?”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, and I was. “Here, I’ll make some eggs and you can fry the bacon.” We had a quiet breakfast, neither of us talking much.
I didn’t hear from him for several days, though I kept texting him. He usually came over after work and often spent the night, even on weeknights. And we always spent the entire weekend together. But the next weekend he still wasn’t answering my texts and phone calls.
“Please, Jeffrey,” I texted. “Forgive me. We can try again. I can learn to like oranges.”
He texted me then, saying he’d bring Chinese take-out. All through dinner, I could tell that he wanted to say something; he opened his mouth sometimes but then closed it again. I chattered on about work and the weather, but he was mostly silent. When it came time to go to bed, he put his coat on, said he had an appointment in the morning, and left.
I frantically called him all day Sunday, and finally, that night, he phoned me back. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” he said. “But I’ve found someone else.”
“Who is she?” I screamed. “How did you find someone so quickly? Has this been going on behind my back? I want to know who that hussy is!”
“I won’t tell you anything. Just forget about me.”
“But you asked me to marry you. We were planning our wedding and our children. What happened? I thought you loved me.”
“I did. But, well, we have different desires and goals.”
“Desires? Goals? I thought we had everything sorted out. We had agreed on so many things. On our whole life together.”
“Things change.” That was all he said before he stopped talking entirely, and I hung up. I cried for days. I couldn’t even go to work. Weeks went by. I didn’t get dressed, didn’t eat much, didn’t leave my house. Of course, my boss sent me an e-mail saying that he couldn’t keep my job open any longer. My friends stopped communicating with me, since I never responded and refused to see anyone. I lay there on the couch in my pajamas, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Jeffrey’s new girlfriend liked oranges in bed.
As I thought about her, I grew more and more angry. I had to know who she was. I would find out, would follow Jeffrey until I saw this new love of his, that whore. I jumped off the couch, threw off my pajamas, and headed for the shower.
I wore dark clothing that night, with a hood pulled over my head, as I stood outside his building, watching, waiting. I had parked my car a few blocks away so that he wouldn’t suspect I was nearby. His apartment window was dark so I guessed that he and his whore had gone out somewhere. When I saw a couple coming down the street, arms around each other, I recognized Jeffrey and knew that the woman in the dark raincoat must be that bitch. He took out his key and they entered the building. I snapped a photo with my phone but could see only their backs. I would come back in the morning to confront this monstrous woman.
The next morning was Sunday, so they were probably eating oranges in bed. At 2 pm the hussy came out on her own. This was my chance! I got out of my car and ran up to her as she came down the sidewalk. “You whore!” I called. “How dare you!”
She stopped and looked at me. I glared at her as we faced each other, gazed right into her eyes. Then I saw her clearly.
She was me.
She opened her mouth in a half-smile or grimace. I could see the orange stains on her teeth, pieces of oranges on her lips.
“You need to brush your teeth,” I said as I walked away.
CLEANER
O
HER NAME WAS Susan. We hired her on the recommendation of someone at the college where I taught folktales and ghost stories. I was told that she was an excellent cleaner—she would make everything spotless and lovely. Before she came for the first time, she e-mailed me a list of supplies we must buy: certain kinds of cleaning fluids, dusters, equipment, etc. She also demanded that we have certain foods in our refrigerator, since she had a health condition that necessitated she eat regularly, according to her special diet, and take frequent breaks. We complied and were waiting for her expectantly.
Susan was solid in build with short brown hair and freckled skin. She did not look ill. Her cheeks were rosy in a healthy way and she walked firmly in her well-made running shoes. Her capri jeans fit nicely, though she was a bit on the chubby side. She had brought some food with her to have on those breaks, though we had bought what she had requested, and she inspected our supplies as if she were an army sergeant inspecting her troops.
“I don’t like this brand of mop but it will do for today,” she said, sighing.
First she asked Greg, my husband, to pull out the refrigerator so that she could clean behind it. She was indeed thorough, scrubbing every tile vigorously for several minutes. Stopping every fifteen minutes for a break and eating her snack took time, of course, and she accusingly told us that she did not like the tofu we had bought for her.
Then, after three hours, she instructed Greg to push the refrigerator back into place, picked up her purse, and was ready to leave.
“That is $150 for today,” she said.
“But are you finished?” I was shocked, and not just at the price. She had done nothing except the floor behind the refrigerator.
“Of course. I’ll be back next week to do more of the kitchen floor. I’ll have this place scoured and sterilized in a few months.”
She looked down at the kitchen table and saw the photos of different breeds of dogs we had lined up there. “You aren’t thinking about getting a dog, are you?” she exclaimed.
“Well, we are looking into it.”
“Let me know if you do. I won’t be able to come here then. They are dirty creatures. And I’m allergic.”
I handed her the cash. She would take only cash. And said goodbye. She dashed out the door as if relieved to escape a prison.
Greg exploded with anger then, and continued complaining all through dinner. “But we’re having a dinner party in two weeks. I need to impress my boss and my colleagues! I thought the house would be spotless by then. This is ridiculous—and too expensive. Find someone else!”
“We have to give her a chance,” I said. “It’s too soon. Maybe she’ll do better next time.”
After dinner, he went immediately into his study and didn’t speak to me again until after we’d gotten into bed. “Okay, Carrie. One more chance. And I know it’s not your fault. I’m not angry with YOU. And I don’t want you to have to do all the cleaning yourself. Neither of us has the time. So we’ll try again, but I’ll be asking around for someone else. And who in the hell recommended her to you?”
I tried to remember. “I think it was one of the cleaners at the college,” I said sheepishly. “But I agree. Just one more try. I love you.”
He grunted, turned his back, and went to sleep.
But the next week was no better. Susan scrubbed half the kitchen floor so that it sparkled. The other half looked grimy and disgusting by contrast.
“Susan,” I said to her cautiously. “We’re having a dinner party next week. Do you think you could clean more of the house so that we’ll be ready for our guests?”
“I’m not a work horse, you know. Do you want a good job or not?” She took her money and stomped out of the house.
Greg and I argued all through dinner again, and I agreed to fire her next week but wanted to see if she in fact would clean the whole house for our party. Otherwise, the two of us, or probably I, would have to spend a day doing the work, on top of the cooking and all the preparations.
The next week, when she didn’t arrive for her 10 a.m. scheduled time, I waited until 11, then decided to e-mail her. She had already e-mailed me: “I will not be working for you any more. You do not meet my requirements as employers.”
I was so angry that I immediately wrote back: “Nor do you meet our requirements as our employee. I was going to fire you anyway.”
