The Housekeeper

by Natalie Barelli

  When we run out of things to say, she waits a beat and then asks, “Everything all right, Claire? Do you need money?”

  I’ve never asked her for money. Ever. I have stolen some, imitated her signature on checks, that sort of thing. In fact, I became so good at imitating her handwriting that once, when I wanted to be excused from swimming lessons because I was being teased about my weight, I wrote a long and comprehensive explanation of why chlorine was hazardous for my skin and I was not to be exposed to it under any circumstances. Weeks later she found it, crumpled at the bottom of my bag. “We should get that skin condition of yours looked at,” she said. I didn’t have a skin condition, but she really believed she’d written the letter and then forgot.

  “I don’t need money,” I say. I want your love, got any to spare? “I have a small favor to ask.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “I’m playing a prank on a friend of mine. It’s a long story, but I was wondering if I could give your name as a reference. For a housekeeper’s job.”

  “What housekeeper? What on earth are you talking about?”

  It made a lot of sense in my head before, but it sure doesn’t make any sense now.

  “I just need someone like you, of your … standing, to vouch for someone. You just have to say you know this person, and that she was your housekeeper for three years. And that she was fabulous. You’d recommend her to anyone. Is that okay? Can you do that?”

  “You want me to vouch for a housekeeper I’ve never met?”

  “It’s just a joke, Emily. It would take too long to explain, but I’d really appreciate it. If I could put you down as a reference.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Emily, please, do this for me.”

  “I don’t know, Claire. I don’t feel comfortable about this.”

  “It’s no big deal, just a joke, like I said…”

  “Then why don’t you ask one of your friends? I’m sorry.”

  “Emily?”

  She won’t budge, and that’s that. So I hang up on her without saying goodbye, mutter Fuck you at the phone and bite my knuckle a while. Then I call Dr. Lowe. I’m resigning, I tell him. I’m applying for a new job, and I need a reference. I would like you to say that I worked as a housekeeper, for you and Mrs. Lowe. I was extremely reliable. Everything was perfect. You were sorry to lose me. At least that part is true. And I’m great with kids, too. Oh, and I took extremely good care of your art collection. What, you don’t own any artworks? Sure you do, Dr. Lowe.

  “Freak,” he mutters and hangs up on me.

  * * *

  In the end, I call the agency. This is Mrs. Carter speaking, I say. They’re so nice. Really friendly people. Mrs. Carter! How are you! One moment, I’ll put you through to Carlotta, they say.

  I tell Carlotta that I’ve muddled everything, and I can’t remember what time or who is my next applicant.

  “Louise Martin. At eleven a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Ah! Yes, of course. Could you ask Louise to come at ten a.m. tomorrow instead? Like I said, very muddled! I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on!”

  Then I set up an email account that I’ll use to contact Hannah later: hsgsolutions@gmail.com (because hsg@gmail.com is unfortunately not available). I set the name of the sender to Housekeeping Solutions Group and drop their logo in the footer.

  I don’t bother going to the bar. I decide to catch up on some sleep instead so that by the next day, I don’t look like the type of person who stays up all night drinking. I even go to the grocery store and pick up two packets of Amy’s frozen mac ’n’ cheese for April and me. That night we sit together on the couch and watch House of Cards, and when I tell her I’m going to bed, she hugs me and says, “I worry about you, you know. That’s why I get mad sometimes.” And it makes my eyes swim because nobody worries about me anymore, except April.

  The next day, at ten a.m., I am fishing around my bag just outside the Carters’ house when Louise Martin arrives, exactly on time. She’s taller than I am, and thinner, too, with short brown hair, but we’re about the same age. Later I’ll find out that we’re exactly the same age. So that’s good.

  “Excuse me,” she says, smiling. “I’m going in there.”

  I look up. “Oh! Well, I better get out of your way!” I smile, then cock my head at her. “You’re not the new housekeeper, are you?”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just that I came all the way from New Jersey for this interview and now”—I jerk my thumb behind me—“she just told me the housekeeper position is gone.” I make a face.

  “Gone?” Her eyes grow wide.

  “Been filled this morning. Thanks so much for letting me know, right?” I shake my head. “I wish the agency had told me. I’ve come all this way for nothing. Anyway, that’s not your problem, even if it is you. No hard feelings. I hope you enjoy the job. Now where is that MetroCard?”

  She’s not happy, Louise Martin. No, she’s not the new housekeeper, and yes, she too has come from far away for this interview. She’s going to call someone and ask for an explanation. I commiserate. “Wanna cup of coffee? My treat,” I say. I take her to Starbucks and buy her a salted caramel mocha. While we wait for our order, I go to the bathroom and call Carlotta at the agency. Hannah Carter here. Sooo sorry, but I’ve hired someone for the position. Yes, that’s right. Yes, please cancel any remaining candidates. No, thank you!

  Half an hour later we leave together, kiss goodbye outside and promise to keep in touch, especially in case one of us hears of anything. I still have fifteen minutes before Hannah expects to interview Louise Martin, and I’ve learned everything I need to know about her. I’m ready.

  Chapter Eight

  Hannah Wilson and I have only met once in person, very briefly. But we’ve seen each other in court and on TV. I’d been feeling confident she wouldn’t recognize me, but then at four o’clock this morning I woke up in a panic. What if she did? So I went to the all-night drugstore on the corner for some hair color, then I cut my hair short in front of the bathroom mirror, the scissors hacking at it, and with every snip I thought of her.

  Time for your comeuppance, Mrs. Carter.

  Snip.

  I told myself that if there was the slightest flicker of recognition, I would tell a lie—that I’d already accepted another position and I had come to let her know I was no longer available. Then I would leave. But one thing I’ve noticed about having pimple-ridden skin is that people don’t look too closely. Also, people trust me. My face is a trustworthy face. It wasn’t always this way; I’ve had some people say terrible things about me. I was called a weirdo more than once. But I got better at it. I learned. I practiced till I got perfect. Poker face, kind face, concerned face, trustworthy face.

  It goes without saying that by the time I arrive at the appointed time, my finger poised on the doorbell outside the Carters’ brownstone, I know I’m about to make a really bad, very bad mistake. I tell myself to turn around and go, that there is still time, but my legs are shaking and they’re not listening, and now the door has opened wide and Hannah Carter stands there, a big smile on her face, and her hand extended.

  “Hello, you must be Louise, come on in! I’m Hannah Carter.” I’ve been looking at Hannah for two weeks now, but it’s still a shock up close like this. Her skin is beautiful, like a peach, but her gray eyes look red-rimmed and tired. I suspect my late-night phone calls may have something to do with that, so that’s nice. She’s wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, and a pair of ballet flats. The only jewelry other than her rings is two small diamond earrings. I shake her hand limply and step inside, and I can’t believe I’m here.

  The foyer is gorgeous, with pale walls adorned by colorful paintings and art deco lamps, and a tiled floor with a dark mosaic design. There are two antique console tables on either side, carrying cheerful bouquets of yellow flowers. A green velvet couch runs along one wall, and at the back of the room is the circular staircase, cur
ling up along the wall.

  “I know, it’s grand, isn’t it? I hope it’s not putting you off!”

  I turn to her and force myself to focus. Hannah Carter is smiling at me. She thinks I’m a twenty-four-year-old housekeeper looking for a job. I study her face, waiting for her to recognize me, my eyes flicking back to the door, but she just looks normal, certainly not confused. I think I’m in.

  “Not at all, you have a beautiful home, Mrs. Carter.”

  “Thank you! It has nothing to do with me, you know. I didn’t decorate it. If I had, there would be a lot more color, for one thing.” She winks at me. “This way. Let’s walk up, it’s just the one floor.”

  “I love color,” I say brightly. But I feel a dampness creeping up my hairline, and a rivulet starts to run down the side of my neck.

  We arrive in the kitchen, which is smaller than I’d expected. She indicates a stool at the kitchen island. I pull it out, and it scrapes loudly on the tile floor. There’s a large notepad in the center, and she reaches for it.

  “Now… Louise Martin.”

  “That’s me.” But she’s wearing the same perfume my mother wore, Clive Christian No1, and it takes me back with a shock so unexpected that for a moment I can’t breathe. She opens a cupboard and brandishes two mugs and asks, “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

  “Tea would be very nice, thank you.” I stand up from my seat. “Here, let me. You sit down, Mrs. Carter.” It’s better for me to do something. It helps me hide my discomfort, and before she has time to protest, I’ve put the kettle on to boil, opened cupboards at random until I found a teapot, and now I have two packets of tea—one in each hand. I cock my head at her and ask, “Which one? Mint? Or Earl Grey?”

  “Let’s go with mint,” she says. “I don’t know how long the Earl Grey’s been here for. Definitely before my time.” She laughs.

  “I was hoping you’d say mint.” Then on impulse I open the trash can and throw the other packet into it. She lets out a snort of laughter, and by the time I put the steaming mug in front of her, I can tell she’s relaxed. She likes me. I decide to be like a breath of fresh air. Friendly, not too obsequious, happy. Diane I am not.

  She asks about my previous employers, Mr. and Mrs. Van Kemp, where I have worked for the past five years as per Louise’s history.

  “Your references are excellent, by the way,” she says. “Glowing.” She smiles.

  “Thank you. I enjoyed working for Mr. and Mrs. Van Kemp very much. I was sorry to leave them.”

  “Why did you leave them?” she asks.

  I put both hands around my mug. “My mother. She wasn’t well, breast cancer. It’s just her and me; my dad died a few years back. I just couldn’t bear the thought of her fighting this on her own, you know?”

  “Is she…?”

  I shake my head and smile broadly. “Oh no, she’s fine. Better than fine, even. She’s in remission, thank God. But the treatment was rough. All these sessions of chemo, they take it out of you. But she’s okay now.”

  “I’m glad,” she says. Then she goes back to her clipboard, and I’m thinking, Don’t punch her. Not yet.

  “My husband is an art collector, as you may have seen on the way in here. We own a number of precious works, many of which are on display around this house.”

  “Yes, I see that. They’re beautiful.”

  “Do you have any experience caring for antiques and artworks?”

  I am ready for that one. “Mrs. Van Kemp, in my last position, she loved her art and she showed me what to do. It was my favorite part of the job. I loved spending time with all these beautiful pictures.” I tell her some brain-numbingly boring details about protective cotton gloves and sweaty palms, acrylics versus oils, when to use a little moisture on the cloth. I rub my fingertips together. “It’s the sweat that’s the problem. It can leave a mark—on furniture, too. I prefer to use soft rags only. Dry ones, except if I’m cleaning oil paintings, because they attract dust, have you noticed? So much pollution in this city, it leaves grime over the years. Anyway, a bit of water on the cloth is best for those, but only very occasionally.”

  By now I’m starting to sound like I’m going for the wrong job. It’s a housekeeper she wants, not a conservator. But she smiles and says, “My husband is going to love you.” And I’m thinking, Babe, wait till he sees my tits.

  She writes things down, and all the time I stare at her face and it makes my heart beat so hard I can feel it in my throat. She really has no idea who I am, which is incredible to me because I, on the other hand, am so aware of her, it’s making every fiber of my being tingle, and not in a good way.

  “We have a baby girl. She’s asleep right now, thank God.” Her eyes flick to the baby monitor on the kitchen bench. Baby Mia is fast asleep on the pixelated gray screen. “She’s almost four months old. We need—or I need, more to the point—a bit of help with her.” She makes an apologetic face, like she should be better at it, like she’s afraid I’ll think she’s not a good mother.

  I give her a reassuring smile. “I love children. I helped care for the Van Kemps’ children. Three of them. The youngest, Bethany, was one year old when I started with the family. Mrs. Van Kemp was going back to work and I was able to help a lot, which was lovely. I enjoyed it very much.” Blah-blah-blah. She’s holding a red-and-gold Montblanc pen, flicking it back and forth between two fingers, tapping it against the marble tabletop.

  “That’s wonderful,” she says. “Music to my ears.”

  But I can’t stop staring at her hand, because this pen, it must cost close to a thousand dollars, and she’s playing with it like it’s some cheap plastic Bic from Walmart. I consider taking it away from her if she doesn’t stop soon. Stop playing with the pen! A pen like that deserves some respect!

  “Mrs. Carter?” I point at her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just the way you’re tapping that pen on the table, maybe you don’t realize you’re doing it.”

  “Oh? No, you’re right, I didn’t realize.”

  “It looks like a Montblanc. Is it?”

  She turns the pen in her hand and frowns at it like she’s never seen it before. “Yes. How do you know?”

  I point to the tip of the cap. “That little gold symbol here, like a snow top. Mrs. Van Kemp owns one too, but hers is black and white. She’s very careful with it. They’re so expensive, I just thought—sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, thank you, I’m glad you did. It was a gift from my husband, when I gave birth to our daughter.” She smiles. “He showered me with gifts for a whole week when Mia was born. Sweet, isn’t it? He won’t be very happy with me if I break it!” And we both laugh, like we’re gently poking fun at Mr. Carter and his expensive gift habits.

  “Even the ink is special, take a look.” She scribbles on the corner of the page and holds it up to show me. “Barbados blue. Did you know there were so many different shades of blue ink?” She shakes her head like it’s all so ridiculous, but she’s not fooling me. I’d bet a bottle of Grey Goose that she knows exactly how much this pen costs. It looks like a limited edition. I bet she chose it.

  She puts the clipboard away. “This may be a little personal, but I’m just curious. Why would you want to work here, as a live-in housekeeper, I mean? You’re only”—she glances at my CV— “twenty-four. You could study; there must be other things you’d like to do with your life?”

  Luckily for me, Louise was very chatty yesterday. “I’m saving money, Mrs. Carter. This is my five-year plan, or I hope it is. I love to sew and make clothes, and I can’t save money if I have to rent a place myself. I’m hoping that within five years I will have saved enough to start my own business. My own clothing store, maybe in Queens.” I shrug, a little coyly. “I know how crazy that sounds, me wanting my own business someday—”

  “No, not at all. I understand that more than you think. I think you’d be as good as anyone else.”

  “Thank you. I sure ho
pe I didn’t just shoot myself in the foot by announcing my five-year plan!” I laugh.

  “Of course not. I’d love to find out more about your five-year plan. You may well inspire me about my own five-year plan.”

  At one point, she asks, “What will you bring to this position that other candidates might not?”

  I think about it. I even stare out the window. “I’m just a really hard worker.” And that has to be the first time I’ve used those words to describe myself. I even throw in something about work ethic, which, considering what she did to my family when she worked for us, makes me want to hoot with laughter.

  Then she tells me about the position. Five stories, six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a million sitting rooms, breakfast room, TV room, terraces, floorboards, rugs, laundry. She goes through all the chores I’d have to do. Bathroom cleaning, kitchen cleaning, grocery shopping, running errands, surface polishing, changing linens, refrigerator cleaning, taking out the trash, taking care of plants. My eyes glaze over and I have to pinch myself to keep from falling asleep.

  “Is that all good?” she asks.

  I think of all the objections I could raise. Like, there’s only so many hours in the day, twenty-four at my last count. And since it’s only her and her husband and the baby, would they consider downsizing? Also, did Diane really do all these things all by herself? I don’t think so. Diane does not look superhuman to me. But then again, why fret? Once I’m done here, the cleanliness of the place will be the last of Hannah’s worries.

  “Absolutely. All good,” I reply.

  When we walk down the stairs, I ask her, “Have you interviewed many people for the position?”

  “No. There aren’t that many people who are prepared to live and work with their employer full-time. That’s why I asked you about that earlier. I’ve seen two people so far, but they weren’t a good fit. Oh, that reminds me, when can you start? Because I need someone urgently.”