The Maid(33)

Mr. Preston stands beside me. “Molly,” he says. “Be careful with that one.”

“With Rodney? Why?” I ask.

“Because that, dear girl, is a frog. And not all frogs turn out to be princes.”





I walk home briskly, full of energy and butterflies from my time with Rodney. I think back to Mr. Preston’s uncharitable comment about frogs and princes. It occurs to me how easy it is to misjudge people. Even an upstanding man like Mr. Preston can sometimes get it wrong. Minus the smooth chest, Rodney entirely lacks amphibious qualities. My chiefest hope is that while he is not a frog, Rodney will turn out to be the prince of my very own fairy tale.

I wonder to myself what the etiquette is around wait times before I dial Rodney’s phone number. Should I call him immediately to thank him for our date or should I wait until tomorrow? Perhaps I should text him instead? My only experience with such matters was with Wilbur, who despised talking on the phone and used text messages for time-or task-related correspondence only: “Expected arrival time: 7:03,” “Bananas on sale: 0.49 cents. Buy while quantities last.” If Gran were still around, I’d ask for advice, but that is no longer an option.

As I approach my building, I notice a familiar figure standing outside the front doors. For a moment I’m sure I’m hallucinating, but as I get closer, I see it really is her. She’s wearing her large dark sunglasses and carrying her pretty yellow purse.

“Giselle?” I say as I approach.

“Oh, thank God. Molly, I’m so glad to see you.” Before I can say anything else, she opens her arms and hugs me tight. I’m at a loss for words, mostly because I can barely breathe. She releases me, tips her sunglasses back so I can see her red-rimmed eyes. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’m…I’m so pleased to see you.”

“Not as pleased as I am to see you,” she says.

I rummage through my pockets and manage to find my keys. My hands shake a little as I open the door and invite her into my building.

She steps in gingerly and looks around the lobby. Crumpled flyers litter the ground, surrounded by muddy footprints and cigarette butts—such a filthy habit. Her face registers disdain at the mess, so much so that I can read it clearly.

“It’s unfortunate, isn’t it? I do wish every tenant would participate in keeping the entrance clean. I think you’ll find Gran’s…my apartment much more sanitary,” I say.

I guide her through the entrance and toward the stairwell.

She looks up the looming staircase. “What floor are you on?” she asks.

“Fifth,” I say.

“Can we take the elevator?”

“I do apologize. There isn’t one.”

“Wow,” she says, but she joins me in marching up the stairs even though she’s wearing impossibly high heels. We make it to the fifth landing and I rush ahead of her to open the broken fire door. It creaks as I pull it. She steps through and we emerge onto my floor. I’m suddenly aware of the dim lighting and burnt bulbs, the peeling wallpaper and the general tattiness of these corridors. Of course, Mr. Rosso, my landlord, hears us approach and chooses precisely that moment to emerge from his apartment.

“Molly,” he says. “On your good Gran’s grave, when are you going to pay me what’s owed?”

I feel a blast of heat rise to my face. “This week. Rest assured. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” I imagine a big red bucket full of soapy water and pushing his bulbous head into it.

Giselle and I keep walking by him. Once we’re past, she rolls her eyes comically, which to me is a great relief, since I was concerned she’d think poorly of me for not keeping up with my rent. Clearly, that’s not what she’s thinking at all.

I put my key in the lock and shakily open my front door. “After you,” I say.

Giselle walks in and looks around. I step in behind her, not knowing where to stand. I close the door and slide the rusty dead bolt across. She takes in Gran’s paintings in the entry, ladies lounging by lazy riversides, eating picnic delicacies from a wicker basket. She spots the old wooden chair by the door with Gran’s needlepoint pillow on it. She picks it up in both hands. Her lips move as she reads the Serenity Prayer.

“Huh,” she says. “Interesting.” Suddenly, right there in the doorway, her face contorts into a grimace and tears fill her eyes. She hugs the pillow to her chest and begins to sob quietly.

My shaking gets worse. I’m at a total loss. Why is Giselle at my house? Why is she crying? And what am I supposed to do?

I put my keys down on the empty chair.

There’s nothing you can ever do but your best, I hear Gran say in my head.

“Giselle, are you upset because Mr. Black is dead?” I ask. But then I remember that most people don’t appreciate this kind of direct talk. “Sorry,” I say, correcting myself. “What I mean is I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sorry? Why?” she asks between sobs. “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all.” She puts the pillow back in its place, pats it once, then takes a deep breath.

I remove my shoes, wipe the bottoms with the cloth from the closet, and put them away.

She watches me. “Oh,” she says. “I guess I should take these off.” She removes her glossy black heels with the red bottoms, heels so tall I have no idea how she made it up those five flights of stairs.