But I stopped my activity, when she added, “George told me that he’s decided to bring in Lilly Lansky, the interior designer. I explained to him that she’s hard to work with. Runs right over people. He didn’t pay one bit of attention. Says your mother-in-law is sold on Lilly. Is that true?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t even know he’d contacted a decorator.”
“Don’t let her hear you call her that. The proper term is ‘interior designer.’ At least, that’s what they want folks to say. Call her a decorator, and she’s likely to paint your walls a ghastly shade of pink, just for spite.”
"Okay, thanks," I said. “That’s good to know. Hey, I think I hear Anya. Have to go! Bye!”
Ending the call filled me with a deep sense of relief and an equal portion of loneliness.
Okay, who else could I call about finding help? Certainly not Sheila. She hadn’t hired anyone in ages. Linnea, the Lowensteins’ maid, had worked for them for decades. But Linnea might be able to connect me with a friend or two. She belonged to a big A.M.E. (African Methodist Episcopal) Church, and not surprisingly, Linnea had tons of friends among her fellow church-goers.
"Laws, child. There used to be a lot of women who wanted positions. We took pride in our work. Young people today think that being a domestic helper ranks right down there with sharecropping. I'll ask around at church, but don't count on me, hear?"
I thanked her and booted up the old computer George had set up in the spare bedroom. There I found all sorts of ads for cleaning services. Most seemed to offer crews. That was both good and bad. If I relied on a crew, there wouldn't be a problem if one person got sick or quit. But I remembered what a disaster it had been, when George hired a cleaning crew to help out in my ninth month of pregnancy. Six of them stood around in our kitchen and fought over who had to clean the toilets. When they finally decided on a division of duties, each person hurried to finish without caring what sort of job she'd done. The halls that connected the rooms were still in need of attention.
A few of the outfits advertising online handled catastrophes. I wondered if we qualified for that. Our situation seemed borderline to me. Reading further, learned these businesses tidied up after suicides, natural disasters, and bloody crimes. Although I love reading murder mysteries, I never stopped to think about the messes that happen as a natural result.
Gee whiz, and I thought I had problems.
"Gross," I told Anya. "That's a level of service we don't need. Not yet at least."
I read the names of cleaning concerns to her: Quicker Picker Uppers, Maid to Order, and Clean as a Whistle. None of them inspired confidence. They all sounded frivolous. I made a few calls, but I wasn’t willing to hand over my credit card until I knew I’d found the right crew for us.
There had to be a better way to find a cleaning lady.
Then I remembered the bulletin boards at Kaldi's Coffee. Didn't people advertise services there all the time?
Bingo!
Any excuse for a visit to Kaldi’s was a good one, but now I had a super-duper reason to stop in and buy myself a sweet treat.
13
I had car keys in hand and Anya ready to go when the doorbell rang.
"Sven and I are having a party here Saturday night," Leesa said, but she didn’t act like she was a willing visitor. Instead, she stood on my front step at a distance.
Around her shoulders she wore an ice-blue shawl that brought out the color of her eyes and a blue turtleneck that matched the wrap. Her hair was twisted into a knot on top of her head.
By contrast, I had pulled on a tired pair of maternity pants and one of George’s sweatshirts from his college days. The "N" in Nike had rubbed off, leaving me to proudly proclaim, "ike."
Actually, it looked more like "Yikes!" because the minute I had picked her up, Anya had spit up pumpkin baby food all over me.
Goody! An invitation. They're finally coming around. For a split second, hope raised its lovely head, only to have its brains beaten out.
"Your workers put dirt and mud on our street. I do not want our guests to get that on their shoes. Your dirt will stain my carpet. You have to fix this right now.” This was accompanied by a sweep of her right arm to indicate the vast mud pool we call “our lawn.”
She finished with a sniff of disapproval and the demand, “You must do this.” The look of blasé expectation on her face was priceless. Our neighborhood Nordic princess obviously believed that her wish was my command.
"Hmmm," I said. "How about if I rent one of those street-cleaning machines. You could drive it up and down until your heart’s content. That way you’ll be sure the pavement is fixed to your satisfaction.”
"That might work if you drive it." She obviously did not understand sarcasm. "Also, you must to clean your sidewalk.”
“Really? I must to clean it?”
“Yes. My friends will park in front of your house. It is only right. You do this for me."
“Do you need me to shine your shoes? Are your toilets clean? Should I wipe your butt?"
"I have cleaning lady for that. She take care of toilets and windows. I ask about butts. You fix street and sidewalk."
"I fix street and sidewalk," I repeated. "Roger Wilco. I'll hop right on it."
"No hopping. No Roger. No Wilco. You do this. You owe me."
"Um…” I pantomimed thinking this over. “I’ve decided. I owe you nothing. Not even the time of day. I think we're done here."
"Yes." She sneered. "Yes, absolutely."
14
After slamming the door and locking Leesa out of my house, I went back to my originally scheduled plan of action. First on my list was a trip to Kaldi’s, that marvelous coffee vendor. As I pulled out of the garage, I waved to Leesa, but I only used one finger to bid her goodbye. My index finger. I was not going to teach my daughter a bad habit. No way!
The baristas at Kaldi’s are not only friendly and efficient, but many of them have won competitions for creating images in coffee froth. How’s that for an unusual artistic medium? Trying to guess what I’ll see in my cup is always a highlight of my visits to Kaldi’s. It’s sort of like reading tea leaves. Somehow, the servers seem to have a sixth sense about what sort of message I need.
Today, either because of my rotten mood or the fact that Halloween displays were popping up, the barista duplicated Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Scream. Sure, the drawing matched my mood, but that was hardly the point. I took one look at my mug and burst into tears.
"Ma'am? I am so sorry. Are you okay?"
That led to me babbling about not being invited to a party.
All the servers gathered behind the counter to listen to my tale of woe. A girl with a long braid and a pierced nose shook her head in solidarity. "I hate mean girls. Sounds like you live next door to one of them."
“Across the street,” I blubbered. “Mean girl lives across the street.”
“Mama,” said Anya, patting my cheek. “Mama sad.”
"Here," said the manager, "I think this might cheer you up." She ducked behind the bakery case and retrieved a giant sugar cookie decorated with a female Frankenstein. "It's on the house."
There are very few problems in life that can’t be solved with a big dose of sugar. Trust me on this.
Holding my precious cookie in one hand and my darling daughter by the other, I found a booth. The server brought me a new coffee with a smiley face in the froth. For Anya, there was a carton of milk. She and I had fun nibbling away at the green-faced monster on my cookie. I named body parts — eyes, ears, nose, mouth — as we bit down on them.
The sugar rush felt great. So good, in fact, that I wanted it to keep going. With Anya by my side, I walked over to the pastry case and said, "I loved that cookie, and I'd like to buy a dozen more."
Anya and I had great fun choosing ghosts, black cats, a haunted house, striped witch shoes, and other holiday icons. The manager gave me a discount. "You're a good customer, and it's the end of the day. Enjoy."
Feeling like I
'd won the lottery, I remembered my initial reason for visiting. With the box of cookies in a paper bag, Anya and I perused the community bulletin board.
Two cleaning services caught my eye. Both looked like they were run by a single proprietor. Each offered tear-off tabs that made grabbing their phone numbers easy to do.
Yes, I'd been rejected by Leesa. But did I really want to attend a party at the Nordstroms' house?
No, I didn't.
What I really wanted — and needed — were friends of my own. People who would like and accept me for myself.
Once I got my house in order, I would set about finding them.
15
After we got home, I dialed the number on the first slip of paper from Kaldi's.
"Yell-ow," answered a voice at the other end.
I do not understand why saying "yellow" instead of "hello" strikes people as funny. To me, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Trés hillbilly.
"Hi, my name is Kiki Lowenstein. I'm looking for a cleaning lady."
"You found her. When can I start?"
That wasn't exactly what I'd expected. In my head, I was the one who’d make the decision whether to hire the person on the other end of the line.
"Yes, well, I thought you’d like to hear about my needs."
The woman chuckled. "Let me guess. You want clean toilets. Vacuuming. Mopping floors. Ain't that what cleaning's all about? Not too different from house to house."
Except most houses weren’t as messy as mine. Clearly, this nice woman didn’t understand the full extent of my problem. I decided to get down to the nitty-gritty. "Right, except this is new construction. We moved in the same day the builders moved out."
"Sawdust all over the place? That's what you're saying?"
"Exactly." I smiled. We were making progress.
"I can't help you. I'm allergic to sawdust." With that, she hung up the phone.
Onward and upward. I dialed the second number.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling about a cleaning lady?"
"Yes. I clean houses. How big is yours?"
"Nearly four thousand square feet."
Silence.
"Ma'am?" I prodded. "Are you there?"
"Lady, that ain’t no house. That's a barn. It's too much for me. Good luck."
After my second hang-up in a row, I turned my attention to the serious business of eating iced cookies.
16
Two days later, and I was willing to call it quits. No one seemed willing or interested or available to clean my house.
Meanwhile, the Nordstroms’ party preparations shifted into high gear. While I watched, their cleaning lady bustled around, flitting from one job to the next. She hauled an extension ladder out of her Toyota truck and propped it against their outside walls. After climbing the ladder, she washed the second floor windows, using a squeegee to get them streak-free.
Next, she tackled the first floor windows, and these were dirtier by far. This worker bee buzzed right through the job. As she attacked the glass with gusto, her multitude of earrings sparkled in the sunlight. The excessive jewelry seemed rather at odds to her pared down uniform of white polo shirt, black slacks, and black tennis shoes.
After finishing the windows in what seemed like record time, she put the ladder away and disappeared inside the Nordstrom home.
Why couldn’t I find a person as industrious as the woman cleaning my neighbors’ house? Life can be so unfair.
A bit later, a florist truck pulled up. Two men delivered bouquets of all sizes.
Not long after the flower boys left, a catering truck took its place in the Nordstroms' drive. The crew members were dressed in crisp white shirts, black vests, and black pants. Like a stream of hard-working ants, they toted silver serving trays into the house. Watching all this pre-party preparation caused an emotional throw-back to fourth grade. Every girl in my class had been invited to Cricket Henderson’s birthday party. Every girl, that is, but me. When asked about the exclusion by our teacher, Cricket claimed that she had found one of my curls in her sandwich. I had begun my career as a social outcast at the tender age of nine.
Old hurts run deep. They hide inside you, only to be awakened at a moment's notice. Tearing myself away from the scene outside my window, I tried not to pay attention to the preparations underway at the Nordstroms' place. But even without watching all of the activity, I felt hurt.
At five thirty, George phoned to say he had a late meeting and would be spending the night at his mother's house. "It's closer."
Right. By five minutes. Maybe. That was the capper to my very bad, awful, horrible, no-good day. I burst into tears while changing Anya's diaper.
Toilet-training. The next horizon. Was I up to the task?
Nope. Not right now. It presented yet another challenge, another way for me to live in squalor.
I’d just made it downstairs with Anya when Leesa rang the doorbell. She looked like a hooker who had decided to go door to door and collect for charity. My mean girl neighbor was wearing a scarlet red dress, cut low in the bodice and high on the thigh.
"Yes?" I stared into Leesa's glamorous face. She'd gone all out with artfully applied mascara, liner, and blush.
"There is no room in our driveway. Our caterer must park in yours. That is best. You never go out in evenings anyway."
My lower lip trembled, but I was not about to cry in front of her. In my mind, I penned a letter to Miss Manners, who would certainly label Leesa as a rude pig.
Struggling to tamp down my emotions, I realized this might be my chance to repair a bit of the damage I'd done earlier by losing my temper. What difference did it make where the caterers parked their van? George wasn't coming home. Leesa was quite correct: I wasn't going out. Maybe I could earn a few brownie points with the Ice Goddess.
"Sure. No problem."
17
By eight o’clock, the Nordstroms' party was in full swing. Not only had the caterer parked in our driveway, but another car, a black Jaguar, had pulled up as well. It now blocked the catering van. I noticed all this from my second floor, where I rocked Anya in the wooden rocking chair, until she fell asleep in my arms.
Reluctant to sleep alone in my big, empty marital bed, I crawled into the twin bed opposite her crib. For hours, I listened to the slamming of car doors. Intoxicated laughter and chatter drifted into Anya’s room.
Around midnight, Anya rustled around in her bed. Tiny cat-like noises signaled she was dreaming.
Since becoming a mom, I'm hyper-sensitive to sounds. Although I could have rolled over and gone to sleep, I got up and checked on her.
She'd scooted to one end of her crib and positioned herself awkwardly. Gently, I rearranged her. Once settled, she sighed with contentment and snored lightly.
Of course, I had to tinkle. I always do when I wake up in the night. Because I use the bathroom frequently, I didn't need to turn on the light. I am an expert at making my way in the dark.
When I finished, I heard loud voices from the Nordstroms' deck. After washing my hands, I pried open the bathroom window and peeked between the blinds.
Leesa's wheat-colored hair caught the light from one end of their portico. Her bob gleamed like a Viking helmet in the velvet darkness. Another face came into focus. This woman was shorter than Leesa, with a curvy build. As she stepped into the circle of illumination, her copper-red hair glowed with the intensity of an ember.
Both women gestured wildly. Their voices traveled through the night in a shrill point and counterpoint that occasionally overlapped, the way any argument does. Although their faces were hidden by the structure of the porch with its narrow roof, their emotions came across clearly. As I watched, they advanced on each other, until the personal space between them disappeared.
The quarrel stopped, when a third woman stepped out of the front door. I could only see her legs as she hesitated on the threshold. Leesa and the redhead turned their attention to the newcomer. Voices still rode the night air, but now
their timbre had softened.
Or so it seemed.
With a screech, one of the women cursed. I couldn't make out the exact sentiment, but it caused Leesa to stamp her foot. Again, the voices crescendoed, growing louder and angrier.
Just when I thought a cat fight would ensue, the front door opened yet again. Sven stepped into the fray. Like a kindly good shepherd, he herded the three women back into his house.
18
Around two, loud voices woke me from an uneasy slumber. First, I rolled over, pulled the pillow over my head, and tried to shut them out. But I couldn't. Finally, I walked to the window.
The argument was taking place in our driveway. Leesa, Sven, and another man spoke a foreign tongue in loud voices, punctuated by aggressive gestures. Around and around they went, their voices climbing higher and higher, in what I assumed was Swedish or Finnish or whatever they spoke in the frozen land of their ancestors.
Suddenly there came a sudden bellow of anger, as Sven pushed the stranger backwards, slamming him hard against the bumper of the black Jaguar. Almost immediately, catering staff arrived on the scene. They lined up behind the quarrelsome trio. The shiny surfaces of pans and trays caught the light from our street lamp and reflected it in eerie flashes, reminiscent of lightning.
The Jaguar's owner shoved Sven backwards. As my neighbor fought to regain his balance, Jaguar Man climbed into his car. Before backing out, he revved the powerful motor. With a squeal, he peeled rubber, spinning his wheels as he reversed out of the driveway. The smell of hot rubber drifted up to my open window.
With the sports car out of the way, the caterers streamed around Leesa and Sven in a single file, not breaking stride, moving ever forward toward their goal. I counted six members of the serving staff. In the dark silence of the night, the Nordstroms huddled together and bent their heads to confer. For a short while, it seemed the conflict was over. Whatever words had passed among the three of them would be forgotten.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 5
