Right. Okay. Let’s do it. I trot through the parking lot and skip down the steps of the underpass. I take the ones leading up to the park path by twos. I’m already dripping but I recognise myself and don’t feel half bad. Reunited with my animal soul, the atavistic particles of my psyche, carving my way across the land with speed and power. I really don’t feel a thing but my engine burning. Perhaps that’s because I’ve only been at it for three minutes.
I stick to the joggers’ path and loudly cuss at the bikers who are disobeying the roools. The lanes are clearly marked, both on the ground and on signs conveying in words and symbols, impossible to miss, that joggers are here and cyclists are here.
But neither group listens, natch.
‘Jogging path!’ I scream as I pass a cycler. ‘You belong over there,’ I bellow and point. Every time I get angry I run better. So, I keep myself angry. I curse at everyone and everything. I shout at the hawkers that their food really reeks. I loudly proclaim to the toddlers wandering about that I am barrelling through and they better watch their step. I feel great.
Then I hear, ‘Hi Fran!’
It’s Samantha, the lady I met after my first power swim at the pool. I had since discovered that she wasn’t really part of the baby pool bunch but was their friend all the same. I’d taken to her. She was an inviting sort of person. I enjoyed hopping out of the pool and saying, ‘Earned my beer today’ because she always countered with something upbeat and convincing like, ‘Ya did excellent. That’s what it’s all about.’
I join her and tell her that this is my first run in Singapore and apologise for my slow pace. She smiles and says, ‘You kiddin’ me? It’s a great pace. You just take it easy now. It’s a killer when you first start out.’ Then she looks at me and gets a worried frown. ‘Don’t you have any water?’
‘I never carry it,’ I answer. ‘Yeah, I can be that stupid.’
Then, with the same ‘shame on you’ expression, she asks rhetorically, ‘And you don’t have any powders either?’
‘I used a roll-on.’
She tells me that I’m asking for trouble without water and energy-infusing, secret-ingredient-Z-containing, $600-a-scoopful powder. ‘And it tastes just like tonic water.’
‘I’m fine. Really. Water is something I use to rinse my mouth out after brushing and tonic is what I sprinkle on gin.’
She laughs and hands me a shmattah.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it’s pieces of my son’s underpants that my helper sewed together. I brought two.’
‘Why, thank you. How kind.’
She dabs at her face with it and I can see that anyone would need two. I’m already watching large drops of water fall from my eyelids.
Samantha’s stride is low and quick. She’s deceptively fast and because we’re running side by side, I match her beat instead of using my own slow-motion leprechaun style. I’m succumbing to the pace and the heat. I start talking mindlessly to rise above it.
‘Your helper?’
‘My maid, Bet.’
‘Oh, do you work?’
‘No, I have three kids. She frees me up so we can enjoy the good part of the day.’
‘There isn’t supposed to be a good part of the day until it’s night,’ I say.
I can’t imagine having a Bet, someone doing everything I’m supposed to do, depriving me of the pleasures of being a martyr. Washing our things, doing our shopping, making our meals, babysitting, sewing shmattahs, cleaning the toilets, scrubbing the oven, ironing the shirts, sewing on buttons, mailing our letters, waxing the car, killing bugs. She’d answer the door when Frank came home for an afternoon rendezvous, overhear our discussions about money, witness my terrible temper and, no doubt, join the small but vociferous encounter group called ‘I Worked For Fran’, or ‘IWFF’, which has now become a verb meaning ‘to have lived to talk about working for Fran’, as in, ‘Yeah, I was pretty IWFFed, but God, cigarettes, coffee and all you kind people have helped me lead a normal life.’ I’ve had supervisors call me in. ‘You will have to be let go if you tell anyone again they are “dumber than a bucket of hair”.’ If only I had a chance to tell my side of the story. Which is, she was!
‘I do home schooling for my kids – or rather, unschooling – and Bet helps with that sometimes,’ Samantha continues. (What is unschooling? Does she tell them one plus one doesn’t really equal two, and don’t let those power-hungry mind-control freaks in the education system tell you otherwise? I’m very curious but I don’t ask because really I want to know more about maids.)
‘Don’t you feel, I don’t know, inhibited with a maid around?’ I ask.
‘Oh my gosh, no. Bet’s part of the family.’
‘Does she eat with you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you take her on outings?’
‘No.’
‘Do you celebrate her birthday?’
‘Oh, that would be a grand idea.’
‘So … she’s sort of like a useful pet.’
We laugh.
She tells me more about maids. Most come from the Philippines but some come from Sri Lanka or Indonesia. You don’t have to give more than one Sunday a month and public holidays off. They learn how to be excellent cooks and would throw themselves in front of a bullet to save your child. Most of them speak passable English and learn languages quickly. They’re generally well educated, because even a nurse or teacher stands to make more as a domestic servant in Singapore than at the top of their career in their home country. Samantha tells me that they flock here hoping for work and I’d be doing them a favour by hiring one. Not just because I’d be offering a job to a needy person, but also because I’m an expat. Apparently, a number of locals have their maids sleeping on the floor of their kids’ rooms or calling a hard chair in the kitchen a bed. Every week there are stories about employers beating up their maids. Just the other day, there was one about a nurse who bit her maid.
So, in Singapore, I’d be a good boss.
I’m wondering if Samantha will run with me again, maybe tomorrow after Caroline’s playgroup. I had found out about it when I ran into Caroline at the store. She hurried up to me while I was at the register and whispered, ‘Don’t get those here’, pointing to my two potatoes. ‘They have them at Cold Storage for half the price this week.’ I didn’t want to seem unimpressed with the tip, so I nodded conspiratorially and put them back, saving myself about a nickel. She called out, ‘Playgroup at mine tomorrow, three o’clock till five, block three, seventh floor.’
‘What apartment?’ I asked.
‘Seventh floor,’ she repeated as she put helmets on her children for the stroller ride home.
‘Hey, are you going to Caroline’s playgroup?’ I ask Samantha.
‘Oh, no, that’s much too structured for me,’ she responds.
‘Really? I thought we’d just sit around, have coffee and cake and make sure the kids share,’ I say.
‘Exactly. It makes me so mad,’ she says, getting visibly angry. ‘Why should my child share just because it’s playgroup?’
Ah, unplaygrouping.
‘I see your point. Well, I, for one, won’t have my child participate in such conformist activities like Simon Says or singing “If you’re happy and you know it do whatever I tell you to”.’
She laughs. She isn’t offended. She can run, she has a joie de vivre that could wake the dead and she’s sweet. Her kids are just the right ages to play with mine. I love her right then. We chat about this and that and the time flies. Turns out she’s one of seven daughters of an Irish migrant couple who moved to Canada, is a vegetarian and breastfeeds her kids until they’re five. She’s got her ideas and some of ’em are plenty out there, but I hope we’ll do this again.
‘Do you want to run again tomorrow?’ I ask when we get back to Fortune Gardens.
‘Sure, this was great. See you at the Boonlap entrance at five. Bye for now.’
I’m a different person when I walk into the apart
ment. I have a friend and I have an answer about why I’m so stupid: ‘Because I’m a jock, Frank.’
After I shower, we open a bottle of red and have a drink on the balcony. The disaster, though always to remain part of the fabric of our lives, is behind us. Frank talks about work. He tells me that the new staff is typically Singaporean and didn’t say a word to him all day except, ‘I’m going for my lunch now.’ I tell him about playgroup tomorrow and my great run with my new pal. We pour another glass and then hear, ‘All done already. I’ll go now.’
‘Oh, Pearl, I forgot you were still here, sorry,’ I say.
She giggles and shifts from one well-planted foot to the other.
‘What do we owe you?’
‘$400 for expat moving, $100 for babysitting, $100 for cleaning and $10 for under 24-hour notice.’
‘Hey, wait a minute, I already paid you $500, and I didn’t call you, you just came,’ I protest.
‘Okay, okay, $207.’
I pay her. She’s carting off $707 today. A maid costs $350 a month. And they do your shopping, make your meals, babysit, lick your stamps and smash your bugs. But Pearl’s what I’ve got. ‘Pearl, can you come tomorrow so I can do some heavy-duty grocery shopping?’
‘No, tomorrow no good.’ Her beeper goes, she whips off her apron, slips on her shoes and as she’s doing the combination lock on her purse, she asks, ‘Alabama, that US, right?’
I nod.
‘When can you come again?’ I ask somewhat shrilly, but the elevator door is closing between us and I can’t hear her answer.
We put the kids to bed and settle out on the balcony again. Gosh, this is nice. It is our home. The chairs we’re sitting on are cushy and we put our feet up on the two unused ones. We look at the stars and then at each other, and smile. This is going to be a good life. I bring out some snacks and another bottle of red. I light my first and best cigarette of the evening. I lean against the balcony and look out over the grounds, the water fountain, the shimmering pool, and, in the circle of light outside the grocery store, there is Pearl. She’s standing in front of a stunned, red-necked foursome, her card between her fingers. I ask Frank, ‘Do you think we should look into a maid?’
‘Absolutely,’ Frank answers without hesitation.
The next day, the kids and I play and shop, which is hellish because I need so much and they behave so badly. Huxley breaks five bottles of ketchup and Sadie tries to pick them up for me. The trolley wheels won’t move and I have no idea where to find what I need. In the end, I get flustered and leave the cart in the middle of the aisle and buy a frozen apple pie to take to Caroline’s. I have no idea how to convert Fahrenheit into Celsius so I just wing it and the result is a dry, fruity brick that would break your toes if you dropped it and your teeth if you didn’t. Before stopping at Caroline’s, I head to the little store for some ice-cream to apply like make-up to my ugly pie and go to block three, floor seven at 3 pm with the kids. I needn’t have worried about finding her apartment. She is indeed on the entire seventh floor. After ringing the bell a dozen times, I just let myself in. The shoes scattered all around the enormous foyer remind me that I’m supposed to take all of ours off. I call out, ‘Anybody home?’
A fortyish Filipino woman in a servant’s uniform bustles out to greet me.
‘Ma’am, Caroline is in here. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ I say. ‘Can I just put this in the fridge?’
We walk for 20 or so minutes from the foyer through the dining room, the rec room, the bar, another hallway, another den and finally to the kitchen. After adjusting the lifetime supply of Diet Cokes, I find a place for my pie.
‘This way,’ the maid instructs.
We go through another hallway and find ourselves in yet another den where Caroline has her feet up on a coffee table, toes sandwiched with cotton balls, and the kids are sitting comfortably on the sofa watching a Thomas the Tank Engine video. There’s a rack hanging on the wall with several dozen remote control devices, labelled ‘drape opener’, ‘aircon’, ‘DVD’, ‘VCD’, ‘VCR’, ‘TV’, ‘fan’, ‘light’, etc.
‘Hi Fran,’ Caroline says. ‘Bethy, you left off here.’ She points to a toe and the maid resumes buffing and polishing Caroline’s right foot. The doorbell rings and Bethy continues her pedicure.
‘Bethy, I can’t get it, can I?’ Caroline says.
‘No, Ma’am, the polish is still wet. I’ll get it.’
‘Maids,’ Caroline says, saying it all, as Bethy walks down the hall.
A couple of weeks later, I wake up early to make a very important phone call.
‘Jessica here.’
‘Hi, um, is this Embassador Services?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Fran Rittman. My friend, Samantha Burns, recommended you to me.’
‘Looking for a maid, is it?’
‘Yes, we …’
‘Do you currently have one employed?’
‘No. I’ve been doing without for some time now.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t know what it’s been like.’
‘Tell me what you –’
‘Oh, God, it’s so good to talk to someone who understands. I’ve had to figure out how to use things and grocery shop and next week, I have playgroup. At my house!’
‘Yes. Tell me –’
‘The other day, I bought a chicken at the grocery store and when I unwrapped it, the head and feet were still on. I screamed but of course there was no one there to help me. I panicked and threw it out the window.’
‘What I mean, Mrs Rittman, is could you tell me what you are looking for?’
‘An amah. A helper. A maid, dammit! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Listen, if you can’t help me, tell me who can. Who has the maids? Who?’
‘Don’t shout, Mrs Rittman. We have several girls who are looking for work.’
‘When can I meet them?’
‘I think it would be a good idea to tell me what you want and then I can put together a group for you to see today.’
‘Can’t you do it sooner?’
‘Mrs Rittman, calm down. A few more questions. Where are you from? Canada, is it?’
‘No, no, no, of course not. What sort of question is that? I come from New York, as in the American New York. Doesn’t that count for something?’
‘Yes, that’s helpful. Do you have kids?’
‘Yeah, Sadie and Huxley.’
‘And they are …’
‘And they are Sadie and Huxley. My kids are called Sadie and Huxley. Can I talk to someone in charge, someone who speaks English?’
‘I’m the owner. I understand you perfectly. I was just trying to get some information so we can arrange interviews. Now, Sadie and Huxley, they are how old?’
‘Young! Very young. And, that’s not all; they’re a year apart. They’re wild. Don’t tell your maids that, okay? They’re smart and good as far as they’re concerned.’
‘And do you need someone to cook western food?’
‘What? Like beans and barbecue? I’m from the northeast. Frankly, I don’t care if it’s cornpone or clam chowder, really, I just …’
‘Mrs Rittman, it’s important to have some understanding of your background and needs. We have girls who have only worked for Chinese families, who know no English, who don’t know how to cook the food you like. We have girls who don’t have experience with small kids. It’s best to identify your desires.’
‘Anyone is fine. I’ll just meet them all, okay? What’s your soonest appointment?’
‘You can come in half an hour if you’d like.’
‘I can’t make it there in half an hour! What’re you, crazy? I have kids to feed and change and I have to pack a small bag full of everything they could possibly need for an outing. I have laundry to do and dishes to wash. I think I can be there in 45 minutes.’
‘That’s fine, Mrs Rittman. We’ll see you then.’
‘This isn’t just a wild goose c
hase is it, Jessica? You really have maids.’
‘No, this isn’t a wild goose chase, Mrs Rittman. The girls are all here ready to meet you.’
‘No kidding?’
‘We’ll see you soon.’
‘Frank!’ I jump onto the bed and shake him. ‘Frank, wake up! I called a maid agency. We have to go now.’ I start a little jig on the bed and sing, ‘We’re gonna get a maid … We’re gonna get a maid …’
He just bounces around.
‘Get up!’
‘Whaaa?’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I shout. ‘We’re gonna get a maid … We’re gonna get a maid.’
Frank gets up to brush his teeth and I leap from the bed, dash out into the hall and jump onto Sadie’s bed – ‘We’re gonna get a maid … We’re gonna get a maid!’ – and skip from room to room – ‘We’re gonna get a maid … We’re gonna get a maid!’ – and down the hall and back into our bedroom, where Sadie is now jumping on the bed, chanting, ‘We’re gonna have woast wabbit … We’re gonna have woast wabbit.’
I can hear Frank spit out his toothpaste. I pause to interpret. We, and I’m sure millions of other couples, can tell a lot from our partner’s spit, even from a distance. This ptchew held amusement and pride. He’s done his part for Sadie. She can now recite sacrosanct lines from classic Bugs Bunny episodes.
Frank has memorised about 600 hours of old TV shows, from the earliest Looney Tunes to the Flintstones to Dragnet. Please let this be because his brain is so large it can hear something once and recite it perfectly. The alternative possibility depresses me deeply. I picture a waxy, skinny kid glued to the television with no drive, no energy. His mom occasionally storms in to say, ‘You’ve seen this episode 15 times already. That’s enough, go out and play.’ But Frank can’t hear her because he’s talking along with the script, in perfect timing and with perfect mimicry. I might as well face it, there is no way he could have consumed all this television even once and still had a childhood that included the outdoors.
I get the kids dressed and fed and jam stuff into my backpack: diapers, milk, toys, snacks, extra clothes, peanut butter sandwiches, juice boxes, crayons and colouring books, Pringles. After a quick cup of coffee we go.
Tales From A Broad Page 10
