Chambermaid

  “That sounds great, but I’ve got my own sister in town, so I need to get home,” I replied, strangely disappointed that I couldn’t snowshoe out of Philadelphia with Matthew.

  “Right, I forgot that Puja was in town. Please tell her hello,” he said, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “But I’m not leaving you here alone. Just walk out with me, it’s after five, and she’s shopping, for Christ’s sake.”

  The judge reappeared the moment Matthew and I were about to leave. She sauntered in, holding at least a dozen bags, completely dry. It was as if she’d spent the afternoon shopping in Beverly Hills.

  “Where are you two going?” she sneered.

  “Home,” Matthew answered point-blank. The judge ignored Matthew, turning to me instead.

  “Sheila, you’ll be interested to see my new things. Come now.”

  “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” Mathew walked out the door, leaving me with front-row seats to the most unanticipated fashion show of the year. The judge shoved me into a chair in the torture chamber, which she instantly transformed into a runway of shoes. Reeboks, Nikes, Birkenstocks. Every comfortable shoe ever made she catwalked before my very eyes.

  With each pair, she demanded: “What do you think?” What did she think? That she was Naomi Campbell modeling Manolos? She was a small lady in deeply discounted tennis shoes. And I was the loyal—and moronic—sherpa carrying her hefty ego. It wasn’t until the third pair of Birkenstocks (in an impossibly hideous purple) that I decided that I’d had enough. I stood up to go as the judge pulled the second purple shoe over her clammy foot.

  “Judge, I am so sorry but I’ve got to get home. I do love all of your shoes but—”

  “No no no.” Her hat trick of noes without an ounce of anger nearly knocked the wind out of me. “Sheila, please, sit, let’s talk,” she begged, wiping a tear from her eye. I hoped that she wanted to discuss the National Independence Center and the Japanese internment victims, the only other time I’d ever seen her shed a tear. “Everyone leaves me. Why do you have to leave me? Why?”

  I sat, staring down at her purple sandals hoping this was a rhetorical question. I hoped that she would yell at me for something. Maybe tell me how stupid I was or that she was a federal judge. That would be much easier than what was quickly becoming highly uncomfortable silence.

  “I mean, Sheila, my husband, Bob, I love him so much and he’s going to die. I just know he’s going to die soon.” She sniffled. I stared so hard the purple started blending in with her feet, giving the illusion that one large varicose vein was attached to her ankle. “You know, Sheila, I feel like I can trust you. You remind me of my son, Mark.” Her son, Mark, was Namibian and I was Pakistani and therefore we were one and the same. All brownies do look alike after all.

  “Judge, I am so so sorry about Bob, I can only imagine what you must be going through. How this must be so hard for you.” Unconsciously, I leaned forward and put my hand on top of her hand and gave it a squeeze. For a split second, we looked at each other right in the eyes and I swear I spotted a glimmer of humanity.

  “Well, I don’t—do not—have time to sit around and discuss this nonsense with you!” she barked, yanking her hand free from mine. It was suddenly clear to me that the look I saw was not humanity at all, but fear. Fear that she’d let someone in. And as soon as she let me in, I was out.

  “I am rilly busy and have lots of work to do at home,” she said and started scampering around her office, shoving random briefs into her shopping bags. “You go home now, Sheila.”

  “Um, I’m happy to wait for you, Judge. I don’t want to leave you here by—”

  “Go. Now!”

  Most of the roads had been plowed, leaving muddied snowbanks on the sidewalks. How could the judge leave Bob at home alone in such a storm? Surely that was some sort of crime. And speaking of crime, how could Heidi continue to get away with being such a bitch to Matthew, one of the most decent men I’d ever met in my life? I wondered if the two of them would end up like the judge and Bob? If Heidi was ditching him for boy bands now, I shuddered to think what would happen when Matthew got old and senile.

  I walked into an empty apartment, spotting a note from Puja on the coffee table. “James and I down at Tryst, come meet us. Hoping the day got better. XOXO, Puj.”

  I peeled off my dirty clothes and climbed into bed—a tryst with James Dean couldn’t have coaxed me outside again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Philadelphia had thawed, leaving traces of stubborn slush as the sole reminders of what had been. Stepping over one brackish puddle in Washington Square, I smiled, noting that in a matter of months, I’d be back in New York’s Washington Square Park.

  Anika from the ACLU had called a week earlier, wanting to schedule an interview “as soon as possible.” Judge Friedman’s newfound role as the Patron Saint of Liberty! Equality! and Justice for All! had rocketed my résumé to the top of the ACLU’s pile.

  Pondering my outfit for the upcoming interview, I strolled through security and off the elevator.

  “Sheerra!? Sheera?!”

  “Yes, Judge!” I hurried into the torture chamber.

  “The nurse’s aid just called”—a fleck of something decidedly heinous came flying out of her mouth, its whereabouts unknown—“and Bob is gone. He’s gone! He just walked out the door!” Where was that nasty fleck? I tried to remain focused on the issue at hand—a missing Bob. But the missing blob somehow seemed more compelling.

  “And he’s neh-ked!” Okay, maybe missing, neh-ked Bob was more compelling. And embarrassing. The thought of a naked Bob made me blush. “He’s just so stupid!” She stood up, blue brief in her hand. “And I’m just too busy for this!” How anybody could be too busy to deal with their missing, eighty-five-year-old husband was beyond me.

  “Um, Judge, maybe you should go home. You know, just in case he calls or something,” I ventured. Wrong answer.

  “No! No! No!” I had hoped that spring would bring a new favorite catchphrase.

  “Do you even know what I do here?” Yes, in fact, I do. You intimidate, frustrate, belittle, humiliate, and gross out everyone around you. “Federal judges can’t—can-not—just leave their chambers any old time! We have very important work to do. I am very important! Now get to work!”

  Matthew was walking into the clerks’ cave as I beelined for my cubicle.

  “What is that?!” he asked.

  I reached for my forehead. Fleck found. I wiped it off, and sure enough, it was decidedly heinous. Chicken salad.

  “I’m sorry, Sheila. That is disgusting. Really really disgusting!”

  “Thanks, Matthew, as if I willingly put canned chicken on my face,” I whispered, dragging him to the back of chambers, where Kate was sleeping at her desk and Evan, having taken a lesson from the book of Matthew, was sitting up dead.

  “Psst. You guys!” I said. Neither looked up. I tapped Kate on the shoulder. She lifted her head, drool streaming down her chin. Matthew slapped Evan into consciousness.

  “Get this, you guys. Bob is missing. As in he finally escaped from that house. And apparently he’s naked.” I peered behind to ensure that the judge hadn’t crept in. Her new “sneaks” were extraspecial quiet. “And she’s flipped out,” I added.

  “Hey, Sheila. What’s smeared on your forehead?” Evan asked, suddenly lucid.

  “Chicken salad,” I answered matter-of-factly, calmly removing the additional flecks. Pregnant Kate gagged. This was no place for a child.

  “Ugghhh!” the judge said, suddenly in our company. “Erin! Erin!” She waved a bench memo at Evan. I hoped for his sake that he was back on the hard stuff. “I’ve had it! I’ve had it! Since that mother of yours died, you can’t do anything right!”

  “That’s it! I’ve had it!” Evan said, plagiarizing the judge. He stood up and, for the first time all year, towered over her. “You are such a bitch!” he howled. Kate moaned. Matthew and I didn’t move an inch.

  “You will not talk to a feder
al—”

  “Bitch. A federal bitch. And yes, I can—and will—talk to a federal bitch like that.” The judge furrowed her brow as she silently ran through her mental Rolodex of zingers.

  Evan seized the moment to do the unthinkable. In one suave move, he bent forward, reached behind the judge’s head, and yanked her bun loose. A sea of pins came cascading down. Matthew and I gasped. The judge froze, like a playground bully whose jig was up.

  “You know what,” Evan said, squatting to see the judge at eye level and victoriously clutching one bobby pin, “maybe you should go find your missing husband rather than sit around this crappy office all day insulting everyone.”

  The four of us stared at her, awaiting a fury that never came. After what felt like two hours but was more like two minutes, the judge finally stirred. She patted her matted hair, hissed at Kate and marched back to the torture chamber.

  The atmosphere in chambers had returned to its abnormally normal state when the first Bob sighting of the day took place. Judge Friedman received a call from her neighbor, whose teenage son had seen Bob walking into the Rittenhouse Starbucks “with nothing on but underwear and bathroom slippers. He was smiling.” The son apparently was on his way to basketball practice and didn’t have time to deal with it. Phone slam. No calls were made to Starbucks. No calls were made anywhere. Instead, the judge opened another brief and started reading.

  The second sighting came about an hour later. The rabbi at the Friedmans’ temple called to tell the judge that it was great to see Bob “out and about” at the French bistro down the street, eating cheese and drinking wine. “Was he wearing underwear? Well, I’d assume so, but he also had on pants and a sweater. He waved when I knocked on the window. Why didn’t I get him out of there and take him home? Well, why would I? He looked pleased as punch.” The plot thickened. Where did the guy get the threads? The judge didn’t seem to care.

  It was almost 5:30. Janet and Medieval Roy had split and there was no sign of the judge following them out. Finally, she picked up the phone.

  “Tell Roderick I’m coming there now. Now! It’s Judge and it’s an emergency!” Roderick was her hairdresser. Her husband was missing (and potentially flashing innocent children) and the emergency was her bun? Ideology was beside the point. Senators should require judicial nominees to undergo extensive psychological testing before confirmation. Did it matter if judges were liberal or conservative if they foamed at the mouth?

  The final sighting came at 6:15. It was the nurse’s aid.

  “Ah, Mrs. Judge, I think I’ve found Bob. Ah, he’s at the deli on the corner of Nineteenth and Locust. He refuses to leave without you. He’s not wearing much and is shivering.”

  I wanted to cry. The thought of a half-naked, deranged old man amid deli meats was too much to bear. Even worse was his wife’s response.

  “Well, tell him he’ll have to wait. I’m rilly busy and have to get my hair done!” Slam.

  With that, she grabbed her bevy of bags and headed to the salon.

  My head was spinning. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t do something, anything. I made a break for it when Matthew got up to go to the bathroom, since I figured he’d try to stop me. It turned out he’d used the judge’s absence to stealthily retrieve a new mechanical pencil, and he cut me off at the pass.

  “Where are you going, Sheila?”

  “I’m going, um, I’m going to get Bob.” Saying it out loud paradoxically underscored the lunacy of the plan and gave me the resolve to carry it out. “So, please don’t try to stop me. I know you think it’s ridiculous that I even care at this point, but he’s an old man and—”

  “Sheila, Sheila,” Matthew said, grabbing my shoulders, “I think it’s amazing that you care. Crazy, yes—considering that the judge is evil incarnate but amazing that you even give a shit about her husband.”

  “Well, I’m sort of curious about the naked part,” I joked, hoping that a little laughter would lower my escalating heart rate.

  “Me, too,” Matthew said and winked, “which is why I’m coming with you.”

  We left the courthouse, squinting north, south, east, west in search of a taxi.

  “Nineteenth and Locust, please,” I instructed the driver and turned to Matthew. “What if she’s there? What if she actually went to the deli and not the salon and sees us? What if she—”

  “Sheila,” Matthew said, taking control. “Would you rather risk seeing the judge and saving Bob or not risk it and let him continue streaking the city?”

  Put like that, the answer was clear. It wasn’t until we stopped and Matthew let go of my right hand that I’d noticed he’d been holding it to begin with. He paid the cabbie and the two of us approached the only deli on the block. One quick casing of the joint revealed that there was definitely no judge and there definitely was going to be amazing store video.

  Sandwiched between two narrow rows was a hunchbacked old (very old) man attempting to shove a tin of barbecue potato chips into his pocket. But he didn’t have any pockets and was only wearing loose brown underpants (they’d been tight and white back in the seventies when he bought them, I’m sure). Behind him was a middle-aged African American woman, whom I presumed to be the nurse’s aid. In front of Bob was a freaked-out teenager who’d probably never work at a deli—or anywhere—again.

  “Hello,” Matthew announced gingerly.

  “Ah, can I help you guys?” the teenager squeaked.

  “Ah, yeah, yeah, you can,” I said and smiled, attempting to defuse the situation. “We’re HELGA FRIEDMAN’s assistants and we’ve come to retrieve Bob.” I hoped the mention of Helga Friedman would pacify Bob. Then again, it was hard to imagine how her name could pacify anyone.

  The teenager retreated behind the counter, poised to hit an emergency button as if we were about to stick up the joint. Bob looked up at us, his eyes burning with kindness. Matthew removed his own jacket and Bob flinched only slightly as it was draped over his shoulders. I reiterated my message. “Hi Bob, we’re Helga’s assistants. She asked that we come get you. She’s waiting for you at home. She misses you very much and very much wants to see you.”

  “This Kris Kringle wants a little Pringle,” Bob mumbled, as Matthew guided him toward the door.

  The nurse’s aid came around to the other side of Bob, and all together, we led him out of the deli. The teenager ran out with the can of Pringles, shoved them into my purse, and hailed us a cab, which was no easy task. We had to promise the driver that Bob wouldn’t urinate or defecate in the car.

  It was only three blocks to the judge’s home. “We have to get out a block beforehand,” Matthew explained to the nurse’s aid, as I rubbed Bob’s back. “The judge doesn’t know—and cannot know—that we came. Under no circumstances should you tell her. Just tell her that Bob came with you freely,” he instructed as we got out of the taxi.

  “You think I’d tell Mrs. Judge that I didn’t do this on my own?” the aid said, shaking her head. “No sirree Bob.” Bob looked up at the mention of his name. He hadn’t said a word since leaving the deli. As Matthew and I shut the door, he peered out the window and smiled, a small tear running down his face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A white lie is a lie which is believed harmless or innocuous, or is in accordance with the conventions of the culture. A common example of a white lie is, “You look marvelous.”

  —Wikipedia Web site http://wikipedia.org/wiki/Lie

  It came as no shock that the judge forgot having green-lighted my interview at the ACLU. While insisting that I come to work before and after the interview (bookending the day with a few minutes), she’d nevertheless been “thrilled” that one of her law clerks was considering something “meaningful” rather than the “rilly silly” law firm route. Never mind that the judge had spent well over a decade engaging in such banalities, as a partner at one of Philadelphia’s white-shoe firms.

  It was just after nine in the morning. I’d arrived at work fifteen minutes earlier, giving m
e just enough time for a bathroom chat with myself.

  “Sheila, where do you think you’re going,” the judge sneered, as if I were trying to pull a fast one.

  “To my ACLU interview?” I asked/stated as I entered the torture chamber.

  “Hmf! You’re getting too big for your britches!” she said. Well, that was definitely true. Subway apparently didn’t make everyone skinny, like their commercials claimed.

  “OK, well then, I’ll see you afterward, Judge.” I quickly backpedaled my way out and shut the door just as she prepared to fire her triple noes. Interviews were unnerving enough and her reaction wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence.

  “Janet, Roy, hey, I’m heading to New York for a job interview this afternoon, so I’ll see you both later.”

  “Isn’t that nice—a little trip to New York,” Janet replied, her eyes collapsing into two slits. “Well, in case you care—Bob’s doctor called a short bit ago and he’s not expected to last long”—she nodded toward the torture chamber—“she’s not very happy about it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, thinking that death sounded more peaceful than Bob’s current life. Heck, it sounded more peaceful in general.

  Medieval Roy swiveled around in this chair. “Kick ass, Sheila, kick ass,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up.

  “Thanks, Roy, I’ll try.”

  Matthew accompanied me to the elevator.

  “Sheila.” He grabbed both of my shoulders, squarely looking at me. “You’re going to do great. The ACLU loves Friedman right now—you’re totally set.”

  I could hear the judge screaming a version of Matthew’s name in the distance.

  “To think that that woman is my ticket anywhere, let alone someplace like the ACLU, is astounding. But whatever, I’ll take what I can get.”

  The judge’s screams were closing in on us, giving me the shakes. I wasn’t prepared for this interview. In fact, wobbling in my nude hose and pumps, it wasn’t clear I was prepared to interact with any segment of normal society.