The Maid(38)

“I’ll do my best,” I say, but the words catch. “To retrieve your…item.” I stand in front of her, at attention.

“Bless your heart, Molly Maid,” she says, throwing her arms around me again. “Don’t believe what anyone says. You’re not a freak. Or a robot. And I’ll never forget this as long as I live. You’ll see. I swear, I won’t forget.”

She rushes over to the front door, retrieves her glossy high heels from the closet, and slips them on. She’s left her teacup behind on the table rather than carrying it to the kitchen as Gran would have. She has not, however, forgotten her yellow purse, which she slings over her shoulder. She opens my front door, blows me a kiss, and waves goodbye.

A thought occurs to me.

“Wait,” I say. She’s down the hall, nearly at the stairs. “Giselle, how did you know where to find me? How did you get my home address?”

She turns around. “Oh,” she says. “Someone at the hotel gave it to me.”

“Who?” I ask.

She squints. “Hmm…. Can’t quite remember. But don’t worry. I won’t bug you all the time or anything. And thanks, Molly. For the tea. For the talk. For being you.”

And with that she flicks her sunglasses down, pulls open the broken fire door, and leaves.





My alarm clock rings the next morning. It’s the sound of a rooster crowing. Even all these months later, I hear Gran’s feet padding down the hallway, the gentle rap of her knuckles on my door.

Rise and shine, my girl! It’s a new day. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle as she busies herself in the kitchen making us English Breakfast tea and crumpets with marmalade.

But no, it isn’t real. It’s only a memory. I push the button on my alarm to stop the crowing and immediately check my phone just in case Rodney texted me overnight. Messages: nil.

I put my two feet flat on the parquet floor. No matter. I will go to work today. I will see Rodney there. I will take the temperature of our relationship. I will move things forward. I will help Giselle because she’s a friend who needs me. I will know just what to do.

I stretch and get out of bed. Before doing anything else, I pull off all the sheets and the quilt to make the bed properly.

If you’re going to do something, do it right.

Very true, Gran. I start with the top sheet, snapping it crisply and replacing it on the bed. Tuck, tuck. Hospital corners. Next, I sort Gran’s quilt, smoothing it neatly, pointing the star north as always. I fluff up the pillows, placing them against the headboard at a regimented forty-five-degree angle, two plump hillocks with crochet fringe.

I go to the kitchen and prepare my own crumpets and tea. I notice the grating sound of my teeth against the crust every time I take a bite. Why is it that when Gran was alive I never heard the horrible sounds I make?

Oh, Gran. How she loved the mornings. She would hum a tune and bustle about in the kitchen. We’d sit together at our country-kitchen table for two, and like a sparrow in the sunshine she would chirp and chirp as she pecked at her breakfast.

Today, I will tackle the library at the Coldwells, Molly. Oh, Molly, I wish you could see it. One day, I’ll have to ask Mr. Coldwell if I can bring you for a visit. It’s a sumptuous room, full of dark leather and polished walnut. And so many books. And you wouldn’t believe it, but they barely go in there. I love those books like my own. And today, it’s dusting. It’s tricky, let me tell you, dusting books. You can’t just blow the dust off them like I’ve seen some maids do. That’s not cleaning, Molly. That’s merely dirt displacement….

On and on she’d chatter, preparing us both for the day.

I hear myself slurp my tea. Disgusting. I take another bite of crumpet and find I can’t eat any more. I throw out the rest, even though it’s a horrid waste. I clean my dishes and head to the bathroom for a shower. Since Gran died, I do everything a bit quicker in the morning because I want to leave the apartment as soon as possible. Mornings are too hard without her.

I’m ready. Off I go, out the front door and down the hall to Mr. Rosso’s apartment. I knock firmly. I hear him on the other side of the door. Click. It opens.

He stands with his arms crossed. “Molly,” he says. “It’s seven-thirty a.m. This better be good.”

I’m holding the money in my hand. “Mr. Rosso, here’s two hundred dollars toward the rent.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “The rent is eighteen hundred, and you know it.”

“Yes, you are correct, both about the amount that I owe and the fact that I know it. And I’ll produce the rest of the rent by the end of today. You have my word.”

More head shaking and bluster. “Molly, if it weren’t for how much I respected your grandmother…”

“End of day. You’ll see,” I say.

“End of day, or I take the next step, Molly. I evict you.”

“That won’t be necessary. May I have a receipt registering proof of payment for two hundred dollars?”

“Now? You have the nerve to ask for that right now? How ’bout I get it to you tomorrow, once you’re all paid up.”

“That’s a reasonable compromise. Thank you. Have a good day, Mr. Rosso.”

With that I turn and walk away.

I arrive at work well before nine. As usual, I walk the whole way to avoid unnecessary spending on transit. Mr. Preston is standing on the top step of the hotel entrance behind his podium. He’s on the phone. He sets the receiver down and smiles when he sees me.