shelves, dusted the unused candlesticks and china, and swept dust bunnies off the cool marble floors.
It was one of these extra jobs that led to our first conversation. It had been eightâmaybe nine?âmonths since I started cleaning their house. It may have been as long as a year. I canât be sure, because when you spend your life waiting, time
no me importa.
(I know this word
waiting
has two meanings in English, and I mean it both ways. Either I am waiting
on
someone, serving them, or I am waiting
for
someone, to answer a question, to give me freedom, to love me.) Mrs. Calhoun came into the kitchen holding a magazine.
âDid you,â she said and clenched the magazine into a rolled-up wand. âThe magazines,â she said, âsome of them are . . . did you . . .â
âI donât understand,â I said.
She slapped the flattened magazine in front of me. She pointed at it and grunted âUh-huh.â Then she pointed at the trash can and grunted âUh-uh.â
âMagazines, yes,â she said, clutching it to her chest. âTrash, no. Understand?â
âMagazines yes, trash no?â I asked.
âYes. Magazines, yes, trash no,â she shouted.
âIâm sorry, Mrs. Calhoun. I thought you finish them.â
âOh, you, you understand,â she stammered. âYou knew what I was . . . Iâm, Iâm sorry.â She tossed the magazine on the ground and ran out of the kitchen. I went through the rest of my cleaning routine on tiptoe until the day was over.
I wanted to apologize before going home, but I couldnât find Mrs. Calhoun. Then I heard a low whirring sound coming from a rear unused bedroom near the three-car garage. Mrs. Calhoun was lying in bed wearing a knee-length lavender bathrobe, open down the middle, with a large white baton between her legs. She moved her arm in broad circles, tossing her head back and flicking her blond hair against the headboard, the sound it made like rain lashing a window. This wasnât shocking to me; Iâd done this many times since Hector left, with ribbed corncob holders, candles, and a special, hand-carved âhappy stickâ a
curandera
sold me, but never with anything mechanical. I was ashamed because I was stealing pleasure away from her, the pleasure she got from being alone. I backed out of the room but jerked the door too fast, slamming it shut. Halfway down the hall, I heard the noise stop and her bedroom door open. Her bathrobe was tied tight, her face flushed, her hair stringy and frazzled. Shehad balled her fists up as if to fight someone, but there was a weird, crooked smile on her face, ready to collapse into laughter at the silliness of two women being ashamed at sharing the secret of how unnecessary men are.
A handwritten note on the dining room table was waiting for me on my next cleaning day. It was too long to make sense of it on my own, so I asked Aurora to translate. She read the unsigned note in a slow, halting voice:
Felicia,
I am uncomfortable with having to say âgood morningâ every day when you arrive. I feel I canât start my morning routine until I say âgood morningâ to you in return.
My morning schedule works on a very specific timetable. I use an electric toothbrush, and itâs set on a two-minute timer. Iâll be brushing my teeth, and my mouth will be full of toothpaste, and I canât say anything to you when you say âgood morningâ because thereâs toothpaste in my mouth, but you keep saying âgood morningâ until I respond. If I interrupt that process, the toothbrush doesnât reset for another two minutes, and that wastes time.
I donât need to know youâre here. Just start working.
âWhat are you doing over there?â Aurora asked. âWalking around and bothering Rickâs wife like you do me?â
When I arrived the following cleaning day, Mrs.