Free The Madonnas of Echo Park by Brando Skyhorse

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 eight—maybe nine?—months since I started cleaning their house. It may have been as long as a year. I can’t 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.
    â€œDid you,” she said and clenched the magazine into a rolled-up wand. “The magazines,” she said, “some of them are . . . did you . . .”
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said.
    She slapped the flattened magazine in front of me. She pointed at it and grunted “Uh-huh.” Then she pointed at the trash can and grunted “Uh-uh.”
    â€œMagazines, yes,” she said, clutching it to her chest. “Trash, no. Understand?”
    â€œMagazines yes, trash no?” I asked.
    â€œYes. Magazines, yes, trash no,” she shouted.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. Calhoun. I thought you finish them.”
    â€œOh, you, you understand,” she stammered. “You knew what I was . . . I’m, I’m sorry.” 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t shocking to me; I’d done this many times since Hector left, with ribbed corncob holders, candles, and a special, hand-carved “happy stick” 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 “good morning” every day when you arrive. I feel I can’t start my morning routine until I say “good morning” to you in return.
    My morning schedule works on a very specific timetable. I use an electric toothbrush, and it’s set on a two-minute timer. I’ll be brushing my teeth, and my mouth will be full of toothpaste, and I can’t say anything to you when you say “good morning” because there’s toothpaste in my mouth, but you keep saying “good morning” until I respond. If I interrupt that process, the toothbrush doesn’t reset for another two minutes, and that wastes time.
    I don’t need to know you’re here. Just start working.
    â€œWhat are you doing over there?” Aurora asked. “Walking around and bothering Rick’s wife like you do me?”
    When I arrived the following cleaning day, Mrs.