When the Lights Go Out(38)

jessie

The day begins with a cleaning assignment, the first in two weeks. It’s a good thing for more reasons than one. These days, cash is in short supply, and I need something to do with my time. Something better than to obsess over my social security number or lack thereof, Ms. Geissler staring out her window, watching me—which, even by the light of day, still rattles me. So much so that before I leave, I eye the window shades in the carriage home, fully intent on pulling each and every one down so that no one can see inside while I’m gone.

I slip out of the carriage home quietly, setting the door closed.

I make my way down the alleyway in back, avoiding Ms. Geissler.

At 7:30 a.m., I arrive at the home on Paulina, a typical workers cottage. I have to ring the doorbell twice before Mrs. Pugh comes to the door and even then, when she draws it open, there’s a deliberateness about it. It’s not the breezy way she typically throws open the door and welcomes me in. Her voice is out of joint, uncharacteristic of her typical chirpiness. “Jessie,” she says at seeing me standing there. The word falls flat, her eyes dropping to the mop and bucket in my hands, the cleaning caddy stuffed up under my arm. It’s far more than my two arms can carry, so that I feel clumsy though I haven’t dropped anything. Not yet.

As the sun rises, it lands on the nape of my neck, making it warm, which is a relief from the near-hypothermic way I spent the night in the carriage home. Cold enough to freeze. My teeth chattered all night, body wrapped up in the one blanket I could find. Three pairs of socks on my feet.

It isn’t so much a welcome. “Jessie?” is what Mrs. Pugh really means, a question more than anything, as if she’s surprised to see me, as if she’s asking why I’m here. She stands before me in a robe and slippers, shielded by the door. There’s no workout attire as expected. No yoga mat and no gym shoes. She must not be feeling well, I guess, because at eight in the morning Mrs. Pugh has yoga, so that by seven thirty, she’s always dressed, hair done up in a ponytail with strands that hang loose and frame her face. But not today.

“Am I early?” I ask, looking at my watch, which tells me it’s seven thirty. I’m not early because I’m right on time. I hear Mr. Pugh call from the distance, “Who’s there?” he asks.

“It’s Jessie,” she says.

“Jessie?” he asks, the tone of his voice equally confused. As if he doesn’t know who I am, which of course he does. I’ve been cleaning their home for years. Every Tuesday.

“It’s Wednesday,” Mrs. Pugh tells me. “You’re not early, Jessie,” she says. And I can’t make out that expression on her face, but I can see that she’s not happy. “You’re a day late. You were supposed to be here yesterday,” she tells me, and it startles me, this sudden revelation that today is Wednesday. That it’s not Tuesday after all, in which case my whole week’s been mixed-up. I wonder what else I missed. I feel groundless all of a sudden, standing high on a ledge with nothing to hang on to.

My apology is effusive. “I’m sorry,” I sputter. “I’m so, so sorry,” as I try and make my way past Mrs. Pugh and into their home to clean it now, but she stands in my way and says not to bother. “We had friends over last night, Jessie. Parents from the preschool. We needed the home cleaned,” she says as she tugs tighter on the cord of the robe to keep whatever’s inside concealed.

“I had to find someone else to clean it,” she says as she stares at me, not into my eyes, but somewhere beneath. She raises a finger, points at my chest so that I look down but see nothing. She says, “Jessie, your...” but then her voice drifts off. She reconsiders. Puts her hand down and says instead, “I tried calling you. You didn’t answer.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I could rake the leaves,” I suggest, though the number of leaves on their lawn is negligible. It’s too early in the season for many leaves to be falling. But I say it so that I’ll have something, anything to do. “Mow the lawn?” I ask, hearing how desperate I sound, but she shakes her head and tells me, “We have a service. They take care of the yard work.”

“Of course,” I say, feeling stupid. I back away, not bothering to turn and look where I’m going, missing the one concrete step that separates the front stoop from the walkway. One step, a ten-inch rise. I drop straight down, landing gracelessly somehow or other on the balls of my feet, whacking my teeth together in the process. I don’t fall, but the mop slips from my hands, its clang echoing up and down the street.

I turn to leave, tripping over the mop as I do, and only then does Mrs. Pugh take pity on me. “Our company,” she begins, “last night. Six kids and twelve adults can make quite the mess.”

She opens the door wider and invites me inside. My thanks is as over-the-top as my apology. It has nothing to do with money, but everything to do with time. Everything to do with keeping myself occupied.

I wipe down the kitchen countertops and cabinets; I wash the floors. In the bathroom, I scrub like the devil, taking out all my anxiety on the subway tiles. It doesn’t help.

As I move from the bathroom to Mr. and Mrs. Pugh’s bedroom, I catch sight of a computer sitting on a writing desk and it gives me an idea. The desk is minimalist, as is the computer. A sleek silver laptop that prompts me for a password as I lift it open and press the return key, holding my breath to listen for the sound of footsteps sweeping down the hall. It doesn’t take a genius to figure this one out. Taped there to the desk is the password, as well as the password for every one of Mr. and Mrs. Pugh’s financial accounts. Their credit cards, their bank accounts. Their Vanguard funds. I type the code and easily get in. I could probably appropriate a few hundred thousand from them if I wanted to. But that’s not what I’m here to do.