The Housekeeper

by Natalie Barelli

  She stops talking for a moment, and it’s unbearable. But I don’t prompt her. I wait patiently, my heart thumping in my chest, until finally, after an eternity or two, she resumes.

  “The family was lovely, at first. They lived around the corner from here, on Park Avenue, in an enormous apartment on two levels. I’d never seen anything like it. The mother was very kind—” And for a second there I want to punch her. Don’t talk about my mother. She continues. “The father was a short, round-faced, balding man who was always reaching for his wife’s hand.”

  Just like Harvey.

  “The boy, John, was sweet, and very good looking for a child his age—with dark curly hair, a thin pale face and blue eyes. He was a lovely boy, easy to get along with, eager to please. But I was too young, too immature, too shy. Everything overwhelmed me: the noise, the crowds, the air so thick and sticky I could barely breathe. I was afraid of leaving the apartment, terrified that I would get lost, that I wouldn’t know how to catch the subway or which bus to take. It just seemed easier to put it off, this great adventure, until I found my feet, maybe even the next day, or at most the next week.”

  She rubs her hand on her forehead, like she’s got a headache. “I woke up one night, not long after I’d arrived. It was dark—pitch black, even. The covers had slipped off me, or that’s what I’d thought, and my nightdress was pulled up to the top of my thighs, high enough to reveal the beginnings of my pubic hair. Then I heard it, the sound he made, a quick intake of breath, over and over. It was him, the dad, sitting on a chair by the bed, so close I could have touched him. I was so shy and inexperienced, I didn’t know what he was doing. I thought maybe I was needed, my mother’s instructions echoing in my head. Be polite, always say please and thank you. I won’t have a daughter of mine be ungrateful or rude to her bosses.” She laughs bitterly.

  “I quickly pulled my nightdress down and swung my legs out of the bed. I was about to ask what was going on when he reached across and lifted my nightdress again, kept it up with one hand so that I remained exposed while he finished masturbating. It only took a few seconds, but instead of fighting him off, I sat there frozen, my face burning. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t even comprehend the situation I was in. Then he patted my knee and left. I lay down again, crying with shame. The next day at breakfast, she asked if I was all right. He was there, too. He glared at me, then in a loud voice, he said, ‘Are you not very happy today, Hannah?’”

  She stops speaking, then turns to me and says, “You okay?”

  I snap my head up. “Sure, why?”

  “You just made a funny noise, that’s all.”

  “I’m okay. Keep going.”

  “To this day I don’t know why I didn’t say anything, only that I was paralyzed by shyness, and by the parental instructions I’d always heard, that the adults were in charge. That you should always answer when spoken to. My room didn’t have a lock on the door, and it happened again two days later, and then the night after that. That time I cried, I told him to leave, I said I’d tell his wife. He said that no one would believe me. I was here without a proper visa, I was working illegally. Did I know what that meant? It meant that if the authorities found out, I would go to jail. The wife would ask me, her forehead all scrunched up in worry, ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Hannah? Is there anything we can do?’ I’d just shake my head. No, nothing. Thank you. But I just wanted to vomit all the time. In the end she couldn’t bear it anymore, this sad and surly girl that even her little boy, who liked everybody, seem to recoil from. Eventually I told her I wanted to go home. She called my mother, and two days later, he drove me to the airport. He patted me on the knee, said that they would miss me, and wished me luck.”

  She stops there, like she’s lost in her thought. My leg is shaking and I have to press my hand down on it to make it stop.

  “I cried when I saw my mother,” she says. “I told her about the father’s nightly visits.” She sighs, picks at the skin around her thumbnail. “She told my father. I was summoned to the living room. It was like someone had died. They were both sitting on the sofa, my mother clutching a handkerchief. My father wanted to know everything. I told him my sordid tale once more, looking at the floor. He was furious. I’d never seen him like this. I begged him not to say anything, not to do anything. To let it be. It was over. What was the point in getting upset?

  “But he was so angry, understandably. He said he didn’t care how fucking rich and uppity these people were. That we may be the Wilsons from Ontario, simple farming folk, but we were honest, hardworking folks and we would not be used and discarded, just because they had so much money. Because that’s what it came down to, in the end. If his daughter had been perved upon by a poor old creep with no fortune to his name, he wouldn’t have made a fuss. He might even have told me not to get so worked up over nothing. But these were very rich people, and to this day, I swear I don’t know if he saw an opportunity, or if he genuinely thought that my honor was priceless. My dad has a gambling problem. He’s always looking for an angle. He calls me asking for money all the time. He wants me to ask Harvey for thousands of dollars, but I won’t do it. I just tell my dad that Harvey says no, and that’s that.”

  I’m surprised that she would even admit to that. Then it occurs to me she might have known I was listening in on the conversation, and she’s weaving it in as part of her narrative.

  “A lawyer showed up,” she continues. “I repeated my story again for a third time. I was terrified of the consequences. But I couldn’t resist the power of my father’s determination. He’d put forms in front of me. Sign here, he’d bark. And here. And here. We’d go over my story again and again, and each time he’d ask, ‘Did he touch you? You know, on your private parts?’ and I would die, right there, of humiliation. Eventually they filed a complaint in civil court in New York. It was my word against theirs, essentially. By then the press was covering the story, and for a time they were on my side. We went back to New York a few times, the three of us holed up in one room in a cheap hotel, my father pacing back and forth on the brown carpet. There were depositions and filings, and the more they fought back, the harder my father went. We were asking for ten million dollars in compensation. But there was an older sister who had been away that summer. I only met her once, very briefly. By now she’d told everyone that I’d told her I’d planned the whole thing, that I was after their money, and the father had never done anything to me. As if. But then the father died of a heart attack. And that was that. Case closed.”

  Case closed? In your dreams, Hannah Carter née Wilson. Case not closed. Not by a long shot.

  “My father didn’t say a single word all the way home, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. My mother looked out the window. I cried in the back seat. When we arrived back home, my father wouldn’t even look at me. He went to get changed into his overalls while my mother took off her gloves in our small living room and turned to me, glaring, and said, ‘Tell me now, Hannah, did you make it all up?’ And just like that, my parents distanced themselves from the debacle they had helped create at my expense. My mother pursed her lips for at least a year whenever she saw me, like it had all been my fault. If I tried to defend myself—But I never wanted this!—she would just shake her head. ‘Let’s not speak about this anymore.’ My father barely said a word to me, and when he did, it was usually to tell me that I’d broken my mother’s heart. So when the florist in town advertised for an intern, I applied because I couldn’t wait to get out of there. If none of that had happened, I would have done what my parents expected of me. I would have worked with them on the farm, married a local guy and taken over when they retired. So that’s how I became a florist. And you know my biggest regret?” She laughs wryly. “I never went to a single museum. I didn’t even try to become an artist. I just gave up.”

  She wipes her cheeks with both hands.

  “I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” I don’t wait for an
answer. I run over to the restrooms by the zoo and lock myself inside. I only just make it before I throw up.

  * * *

  “You okay?” she asks, frowning, when I return. It’s all I can do not to punch her in the face. Because she is the greatest liar I’ve ever met. She knows very well that’s not what happened. And I don’t just mean her justifications for her actions, her claims that my father really did those things to her. I expect nothing less from her. But there’s something about the way she told the story. There are too many lies. Too many things that don’t add up.

  I nod. “I have a sensitive stomach. Nothing to worry about, keep going.”

  “Do you remember that day Diane came to the house, the day she went crazy?” she asks.

  “How could I forget?”

  “She said I wasn’t who I said I was. Clearly, she found out about Hannah Wilson. She came over to threaten me. That’s why I didn’t want to tell Harvey about her coming over, you understand?”

  It takes a moment for it to sink in. Hannah thought Diane’s big crazy outburst was about her. She believes Diane was threatening to expose her, her past. I know who she really is. She’s a liar. She’s evil. She had no idea Diane was talking about me. I think back over what she said right afterwards. I’d like to give you a raise, since you double as a bodyguard. That was a bribe, pure and simple. Don’t tell my husband.

  “Have you told him now?” I ask.

  She shoots me a small smile, then opens her lips as if to say something. She blinks, shakes her head imperceptibly. “Not yet,” she says and quickly adds, “but I will. I have to. I just want to get over this latest drama first.” She puts her hand on her forehead and stays like that a while.

  The award for best actress in a real-life drama goes to…

  “The part that really worries me, Louise, is that I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. I wonder if that’s why Mia is always upset when I’m around.”

  “She’s not always upset,” I say.

  “With me she is. Babies, children, they’re attuned to their mothers. I worry sometimes I’m doing something wrong with Mia. Something that will matter later.”

  I nod. “When I lost my mother—” But then I immediately stop talking.

  “Oh, Louise, I thought your mom was okay? I thought she’d recovered after the treatment? Did something happen?”

  “Oh yeah, I meant when I almost lost my mother. I thought she was going to die, I told you that, didn’t I? That’s why I had to take time off work and look after her.”

  “Of course. I remember. But she’s okay now, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she’s good.”

  “Okay, good to know. You had me worried for a moment.”

  She rummages through her bag for something and pulls out her phone.

  “We should go,” she says, still not looking at me, and I think I detect a blush on her neck.

  “Sure. You okay?”

  “Yes. I am now.” She turns to face me. I study her face, but she seems normal again. “Thank you for listening.”

  “You’re welcome, but I’m still not sold on the Diane angle. Just saying. If I were you, I’d keep Eryn at arm’s length for a while. Something’s not right about that woman.”

  She stands up, hoists her bag over her shoulder and adjusts her sunglasses. “That’s funny, she said the same about you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Back home, Hannah announces she’ll put a cheese platter together for us, which is fine with me. I’m always nervous around mealtimes, especially if Hannah is hovering nearby, so if she wants to do it, I’m not going to stop her. I still have leftovers from a Greek salad I bought the day before, so I pull that out of the refrigerator. It’s in a bowl because I’m very careful not to keep the original packages. They get immediately thrown in the trash, even the recyclable plastic ones. I put them in a paper bag and take them out to the trash in the street.

  I serve the Greek salad and put out some saltines to go with it as she pulls out a bottle of Shiraz. “I never drink at lunchtime, but today I’m making an exception. You want to join me?”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea.” I pull out two glasses for us.

  “Don’t tell Harvey I didn’t go to the mothers’ group, please.”

  Don’t tell Harvey… Don’t tell Harvey… “I won’t.”

  We eat silently for a moment. “Can I ask, why did you fire Diane?” I ask without looking at her, like I’m just making idle conversation.

  “Because she threw out my mug from Canada,” she says.

  I look up then. “She threw out your mug from Canada?” I repeat, to make sure I heard her right.

  She sighs. “It was more than that, of course. Diane never liked me. She was always comparing me with Serena—”

  “Ah.”

  “And maybe that’s why I let her go. Because I’m insecure. There. I’ve said it. I let Diane go because she made me feel bad about myself.”

  “Bad how?”

  “Oh God, so many things… One time, Patsy was here and Diane told her, in front of me, that I’d been asking people how much things cost, and she didn’t think it was appropriate.”

  She pops a piece of cheese into her mouth.

  “Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh. Patsy wanted to know what I’d asked, and to whom. I had to explain it wasn’t like that. It was because Eryn was here, I don’t remember the occasion. I was looking at her ring. Beautiful. Diamonds and rubies. I chided her because I thought she must have a new man in her life. She said no, it’s a present to myself, that’s what she said. I was ogling the ring, and blurted out something like, ‘That must have set you back a few bucks!’ Behind me, Diane made some tut-tut sound. Then she leaned over and whispered, ‘Mrs. Carter, people in your position don’t comment about what things cost.’ In front of Eryn. I was so embarrassed…”

  I burst out laughing, which threatens to turn into hysterics. Maybe it’s the shock of the day, having to listen to her endless lies, that’s made me tied up in knots. But I am laughing so much I’m crying, and now Hannah is looking at me like there’s something wrong with me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say finally, getting my breath back. “It’s just so outrageous, it’s funny!”

  She makes a face, but then she smiles.

  “Don’t stop now,” I say, filling up her glass. “Tell me more.”

  “Well, I would move something—for instance, you see how the spices are lined up over there on the shelf? One time, I put them all near the stove and moved the coffee machine over here, and all those white cups and saucers from over there, I put them where the spices used to be. The next day, she’d put everything back the way it was before I changed it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. This was the kind of game Diane liked to play, except I didn’t know what the rules were. As far as I could tell, it went like this: I put something somewhere, she moves it back. I know the kitchen was her domain, but I live here, too. I just like to stand here in the morning and have my coffee, and I just put the cups and the coffee machine within reach. That was all. She walked in that morning, greeted me, and I asked her, Did you move the spices back? And the coffee machine? And you know what she said?”

  I shake my head. “What did she say?”

  “She put on her stupid apron, and she said, ‘Mrs. Carter always liked it this way, with the cups over there and the spices here.’ She meant Serena, of course.”

  I snort, but I’m eating, and an olive pops out of my mouth and bounces on the table. I grab it and throw it in the sink.

  “I am Mrs. Carter! I told her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She apologized.” Hannah imitates Diane’s voice. “‘Sorry, Mrs. Carter. I mean the first Mrs. Carter.’ I told her yes, I know what you meant. But I thought, she meant the real Mrs. Carter. The one who truly belongs here, in this beautiful home, the one who drinks her morning coffee out of fine white china, just like Harvey. The one who looks l
ike she’s stepped off a Vogue cover instead of, well, me. Do I look like I belong here? Don’t answer that. I’m working on it. And the funny thing is that I tried so hard to get along with her. I even asked her, in the beginning, to call me by my first name. Call me Hannah, I said, back when I thought we could get along. One time I helped load up the dishwasher and she complained to Harvey that it wasn’t appropriate and it made her uncomfortable.”

  “You can do my job, if it makes you feel better,” I say.

  She smiles. “So as you can imagine, Diane never did call me by my first name. Instead she seized every opportunity to make me feel inadequate. She told me once she’d read an article about how breastfed children are better at math, would I like to see it? Even though she knew very well I hadn’t been able to breastfeed. I’d love to breastfeed, but I can’t. I have to rely on formula instead. As you know.”

  “That’s not nice,” I say, but all the while I’m liking this Diane more and more. I clearly misjudged her.

  “No, it’s not. And this is from someone who, as far as I know, has not had children. Another time I put sunflowers in the hallway, and she came to me, and she said, ‘The first Mrs. Carter always puts white roses on the console table, I thought you’d want to know.’ Well, you thought wrong.”

  “Are you serious? Again with the first Mrs. Carter?”

  “Yes! I told her I was a florist before I came here, and she said, ‘Oh really? How terribly interesting,’ like it really wasn’t.”

  I really can’t blame Diane on that one, but still, I make the right noises, like I’m outraged on her behalf.

  “But the way she looked at me after that,” Hannah resumes, “I knew I’d screwed up. I’d just slid a few rungs beneath her on the ladder of respectability. I was a merchant now, not a proper upper-class wife. I may have scored a big fish and married above my station, but I was only one divorce decree away from yelling out prices at the wholesale market.”

  “Did you do that? Yell out prices at the wholesale market?”