The Housekeeper

by Natalie Barelli

  She twirls the stem of her empty glass and I go to refill it, but the bottle is empty.

  “Would you…?” she begins.

  “Hold it right there,” I say. I rush to the wine cooler and hold out another bottle. “This okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  I pour her another glass. “Okay, keep going. The suspense is killing me.”

  “I’d reached the landing by that point, and I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ But no one replied. I told myself I was overreacting. That I must have left the lamp on myself without realizing. But it was the one with the stained glass shade and the small brass pull chain hanging from the socket, you know the one? Next to the phone?”

  I nod. I know the one.

  “I don’t usually have it on. But I was standing in front of it and I could see my reflection in the window. Then the phone rang, and I thought I was having a heart attack. It was a blocked number, but I picked it up, and it was her.”

  She leans forward, and I do the same. It’s dusk now. Neither of us has turned on a light and everything in the room is losing its color.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “Fuck you, Mrs. Carter. I hope you hate your life.”

  * * *

  I sit back, speechless. Maybe she is crazy, maybe Harvey is right to send her to a psychiatrist, because I did call her that night, and I did say those things to her, but I didn’t go into her house and I sure didn’t turn a lamp on.

  She sighs. “Predictably, Harvey said I was overreacting. He said it was my anxiety getting the better of me. That I needed to relax. That obviously, I left the light on.” She stands up and tears off a sheet from the roll of paper towels, then blows her nose into it.

  “Maybe Diane still had keys,” I say.

  “Exactly. I said that to him. ‘How do you know Diane didn’t keep one of the keys before returning them?’ But he said he checked.”

  “Maybe she made copies,” I suggest.

  “I said that too, but he says you can’t just go and make copies of these keys. They’re security keys. In the end we had a fight, right here, in this room.” She chuckles. “Anyway, I got him to change the locks.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I say.

  “Harvey and I made up, of course. We made up that night—we were both apologizing, although I still don’t know what I did wrong exactly. It was such a stupid argument. We haven’t spoken of Diane since. We pretend that I never said the things I said about her, that I no longer think she’s a danger to society, so we don’t need to mention her ever again. But I always worry that she’s biding her time, that the next time she does something it will be even worse. Every time I step outside, I search for her, but so far, she has stayed in the shadows, where she skulks about, no doubt, ready for her next strike. Have I told you about the rat?”

  I tilt my head at her. “The rat? No.”

  She tells me about the rat in the mailbox, how it happened after she fired her. How she was holding Mia at the time and it was a miracle she didn’t drop her. Also that rats have terrible diseases—I hadn’t thought of that—and she had to wash her hands with bleach!

  “What did Mr. Carter say?”

  “He wasn’t there. His mother was there, but she’d left before I found it. And you know why she was there? Because Diane had called her and she had come to ask me to change my mind. She would take Diane’s side against mine.”

  I shake my head. “Did you tell Mr. Carter about the rat?”

  She nods. “He said it was kids, playing a prank.”

  “Kids have a lot of time on their hands around here,” I say. “Maybe you should consider moving downtown.”

  She smiles sadly. Then she gets up and turns on the overhead lights, and the room suddenly becomes normal again. I move to the window and pull the blinds down.

  “So what happened after that?” I ask when we’re both back at the table.

  She shrugs. “Nothing. He assured me it couldn’t possibly be Diane, that it wasn’t her style. He said he’s known her a long time. Nothing I say will convince him, so I’ve given up.”

  “Well, once he hears about this, he’ll feel terrible for not believing you sooner.”

  She hesitates. “If you don’t mind, let me tell him in my own time.”

  I’m waiting for her to say something else, but she reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and it’s so unexpected it makes me blush. “I’m so glad you’re here, Louise. I can’t thank you enough.” She lets go of my hand. “After tonight, I feel like I owe you my life!” she laughs. “And since you seem to double as a bodyguard, I’d like to give you a raise. I know it’s awkward, please don’t say anything. I’m really very grateful. For everything. I want you to know that.”

  “Thank you. That’s kind of you.” But something is wrong here, because why would you wait for the right time to tell your husband that some lunatic tried to break into your house, clearly wanting to harm you and your child, and thank God Louise was there to stop her? She should be calling him right now. She should be screaming into the phone. See? And I have a witness! So you believe me now?

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  “Thank you. It’s complicated,” Hannah says. “So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if—”

  “Hannah, honestly, it’s none of my business. I won’t mention anything to Mr. Carter.”

  “Just not until I get a chance to do it, that’s all.”

  “You have my word,” I say, thinking I can’t wait to call her again later tonight. I might even wait until she’s asleep if Harvey isn’t back by then.

  Bitch. You’re a horrible person. I know what you did.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ever since Diane burst through the door like the Big Bad Wolf in the “Three Little Pigs” story, I’ve been on edge. I can tell Hannah is too. We don’t speak about it, but we both scan the streets whenever we step outside. We both jump at the sound of a phone ringing. Any phone. We have our own reasons, but we’re both scared of her and I have more reason to be than Hannah. All it would take is for Diane to change her mind and get in touch with Hannah, or even Patsy, and tell them my real name. They’d call the agency and be told that, no, whoever your housekeeper is, it’s not Louise Martin. I still have the image of Diane screaming that I’m a liar imprinted on my retinas. And I still don’t understand why Hannah hasn’t confronted me about it.

  * * *

  It’s Saturday, my first day off, and I am lying on my bed watching TV with a bottle of vodka I swiped from the bar upstairs. I can barely keep my eyes open. This job, if I were to do it the way it’s intended, would be like being trapped on a hamster wheel. By the time you finish cleaning the house you have to start again from the beginning.

  Hannah complained this morning that she’s not well. She’s worried something is wrong with her. She says she can’t think straight and that she feels like a radio constantly trying to tune itself but looping through endless static instead. I thought, as an analogy, this one has probably passed its used-by date. Does anybody even own a radio anymore? Is static still a thing?

  I said, “Really? But you’ve been doing very little, hardly anything. Maybe you should go to the doctor! What does Mr. Carter say?”

  Because all the while I’m thinking, I’m the one who has to wake up at six a.m. every morning, and you’re telling me this? I’m so tired all I can do is shuffle slowly through the house, cataloging the things I’ll steal when I leave. Unless she’s around, in which case I might scrub some imaginary speck of dust.

  Anyway, I open the bottle of vodka, thinking I should have opted for some red wine because I don’t have a refrigerator in my room, not even a bar fridge, and warm vodka is not the same. I pour some into the glass that normally holds my toothbrush and surf through the various channels. They don’t have Netflix or Hulu or anything like that. I wonder if I should ask for it, as part of my employment package. In the end, I s
ettle on a shopping channel, and I am plowing through my second bag of corn chips when she knocks on my door.

  “Hello! Louise! You in there?”

  I freeze for a second, then put my glass slowly on my bedside table, straighten my T-shirt and open the door a fraction, just enough to squeeze my face through. Like that poster of Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  “Hi?”

  She’s wearing her denim jacket and black jeans, her hands in her back pockets. “I know it’s your day off. I thought maybe we could go out together? Shopping, maybe? If you felt like doing that?”

  I grip the edge of the door harder. “That sounds like fun, but I’m going out soon.”

  “Oh? Of course! Sorry.”

  “Maybe next time?” I say.

  “Sure, okay. Next time. Oh, and there’s another thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “There was an issue with your W-4 form—your Social Security number doesn’t match. Can you give it to me? I’ll resubmit it for you.”

  I stare at her for a moment, and no words come out. The silence goes on for just a little too long until finally I shake my head. “Sorry. I can’t think today,” I say, laughing a little too loudly. “Okay, Social Security number. I’ll find it and give it to you.”

  “Great, no rush, whenever you can.”

  “But it’s going to take a while, isn’t it? If you have to resubmit it?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “I was wondering, could you pay me cash instead? Maybe just for this month? I don’t know if I can wait, that’s all.”

  “No, you won’t have to wait. Even if the W-4 is late, it won’t affect your salary. I’ll make sure you get paid into your account, regardless.”

  “Right, but I forgot to say, I’ve got an issue with the bank account on my application.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s stupid, but I closed it down recently. I just haven’t had the time to do anything about it. So just for this month, if you could pay cash, I’d really appreciate it.”

  She blinks a few times like she’s confused, and I’m about to say, okay, fine don’t worry about it, Hannah, but she nods.

  “Sure, I’ll organize it. Enjoy yourself today.”

  I smile, thank her, and manage not to kick the door shut in her face. Then I drag myself to get changed and put the bottle of vodka in my bag. I consider going to see April—we could order pizza, maybe? But then I imagine all the questions she’d be asking: OMG! Where have you been? Why didn’t you return my calls or my texts! How’s your cousin? What’s Pittsfield like? What do you do all day? Hey, I don’t mean to nag, but do you have my rent yet?

  So, I end up back at Dominic’s place, on the off chance he’s home. I haven’t remembered his name is Dominic at that point, but I remember where he lives. He opens the door, sizes me up, and says, “You left without saying goodbye.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to say it now. Goodbye.”

  He chuckles, and we stand awkwardly at the door, and I’m just starting to think this is a really dumb idea when he puts his hands all over me, hugging me, groping me, which feels nice after Harvey not even being tempted. So I kiss him.

  After we have sex, he gets up to get glasses for the vodka, and I use the time to snoop around his apartment. It’s brighter than I remember, and surprisingly tidy. I open his laptop, which asks for a password, so I close it again. I vaguely consider stealing it, then change my mind. I turn my attention to the black soft bags of various sizes and folded tripods in the corner.

  “What’s all this?” I ask when he returns.

  “It’s my job.” He hands me a glass, then opens one of the bags and pulls out a camera, very professional-looking. He points it at me but doesn’t take the cap off.

  “You make porno?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “I’m a photographer.”

  “What, like weddings?”

  “Sometimes, but mostly I do things like still life, for the larger stock image libraries. Then I’ll do events. Art openings. Some catalog work, the occasional gig with the Post.” He tries not to smile, the way people do when they’re really pleased with themselves but they pretend it’s no big deal.

  “How did you get into that? Photography, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I fell into it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “I took drugs.”

  I chuckle. “We all take drugs, Dominic.”

  “I sold them, too. It landed me in jail for two years. Feel free to show yourself out.”

  I cock my head at him. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, and I’m not ashamed of it, in case you’re wondering. Shit happens.”

  I laugh. “I know shit happens, buddy. So what now? You’re cured?”

  “I’m in recovery.”

  I snort. “And they let you into posh events? Art openings? The occasional gig with the Post? No way! Oh wait, is that how you buy drugs? Is this your gig, you get in and steal stuff? That is wicked, my friend. Congratulations. I’m impressed.” I take the last swig off my tumbler.

  He crosses his arms over his chest and frowns at me, like he’s confused. He doesn’t know if I’m joking or not. Neither do I.

  “I don’t steal stuff. I don’t buy drugs either. It’s my job. I also teach—in prison. I help kids who are incarcerated, so they can get their high school diplomas. So they can get past their mistakes and go to college when they get out. I teach them to give up drugs and get a job. Get a life. You got a problem with that, too?”

  I put one hand on my waist. “Wanna fuck?”

  * * *

  When I return the following day, Hannah has gone to lunch with her friend Eryn. I’m sitting on her bed, shaking and confused, and it has nothing to do with my hangover. It’s because I have her diary in my hand, and I have to read the entry twice because the words are jumping and they’re making me ill.

  I woke up last night, and that horrible fear had me in its grip again. I had to rush out of bed to Mia, but when I got to the nursery, complete silence. By the time I bent over the crib, I had twisted myself into such a panic that I was almost surprised to find Mia in it, lying peacefully on her back. I placed my palm over her round belly and felt her breathe. Only then did I let my own breath out. I’m going crazy. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh with relief or howl with despair at my own neurosis.

  I stood there, pulling myself back together, the heel of one hand between my eyes and the other gently resting on top of my baby, and maybe that was why I didn’t hear her.

  “Everything all right?”

  And for a second I thought it was Diane, and I opened my mouth to scream, then quickly clasped my hand over it.

  “Louise, shit, you scared me to death.”

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I just heard something.”

  “Yes, me,” I replied. She came to stand next to me, so close I could smell her soap. She bent over the crib and rubbed my daughter’s cheek with her thumb. A little sound escaped Mia’s lips, like a bubble.

  “She’s all right now. Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed, Louise.”

  She straightened finally and pulled her hand away, but I could tell she didn’t want to go. Mia let out a short, displeased cry. We both froze, but then she sighed and we both chuckled softly. “I’ll bring you some tea, it will relax you,” she whispered. I was about to say no, her teas always make me sleepy and I don’t need any more of that, but then I changed my mind just to get her out of the room. “That would be great, thanks.”

  I dragged the armchair next to the crib, tucked my feet under me and pulled the throw over my shoulders. But a part of me wondered, did Louise really come in because she heard me? Because it felt like she was already there, in a dark corner of the room. Waiting. Silent. Until finally she announced
herself. She seems to do that a lot, appear suddenly out of nowhere when I least expect it. Sometimes I wonder if she’s spying on me. I should probably say something to her. Ask her not to do that anymore. It’s creepy.

  At least those awful phone calls have stopped, although I fear it’s a case of the calm before the storm. I try to distract myself, go for walks in the park. It makes me feel better to be outside. Louise and I took Mia out together the other day. We went to the conservatory garden, which I love. On the way back I pointed out the foxglove and explained how toxic it is. She was fascinated by that. She couldn’t believe that a plant that lethal could be found in the middle of the park. I suppose she has a point.

  I wish I could talk to Harvey or Dr. Malone about Louise. Explain that it’s a feeling I have about her, and it’s not a good one. She’s making me nervous. But I can’t, of course. It would just confirm what they already think about me. That I’m paranoid, overly anxious, sick.

  I feel so alone, I want to cry.

  None of this is true. I’ve never been to the conservatory garden with her and Mia. I’ve never laid eyes on foxglove. I wouldn’t know what it looks like if it slapped me in the face.

  That scene she describes in the nursery, her coming in to check on Mia, me in a dark corner of the room, staying silent, being creepy? Never happened.

  It’s her who’s always following me around, not the other way around. I’m constantly trying to get away from her. I try to remember a single time when she might have been surprised to see me, and I can’t.

  She’s lying. She’s writing down lies about me and I don’t know why.

  Chapter Eighteen