by Janet Walker
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MAID TO ORDER
Grace saw the older-model green Plymouth sedan parked on the driveway outside and wondered whose it was. Dressed still in her Third Reich colors, still wearing Tip’s whistle around her neck, she strode through the laundry room and wondered who Darrel had invited into her home this evening, unannounced. Damn him. Grace opened the door to the kitchen and right away spotted her husband, seated at the table in the breakfast nook, his face split in a grin, his head thrown back in laughter. He wore black dress slacks and a slate turtleneck. At the table with him was a woman who was also chuckling. Grace could see the back of the woman’s small shoulders and her veined pale brown hands, which daintily held a coffee cup. She wore a simple lime blouse that contrasted with the auburn color of her hair.
“You’re right about that! That’s just the way Pastor talks, too!” Darrel was saying as Grace walked in. He saw her and cried, “Hey, baby!” He immediately rose and came toward her, pleading with his eyes that she not display rudeness toward their unexpected guest. His worry was warranted. They had a rule, and he had broken it. Whenever Darrel wanted a guest he had to get Grace’s permission first or else give her warning by phone so that she would not come home to a surprise. So now he watched her nervously, his back to their visitor. “Grace,” he said, bending down to kiss her jaw.
She did not want him to kiss her, but she let him because the stranger had turned in her chair and was watching them.
“Baby,” Darrel explained, his arm extended toward the woman, “this is the lady we talked about. Doing the cleaning? Mrs. Gentry,” he said, smiling.
Grace opened her mouth with understanding. So this was the maid. Grace watched as the woman stood, smoothing out her smock. With it, she wore a plain black skirt and brown matronly pumps. She appeared to be near sixty—the aged hands, the weariness around the eyes. Her face was pleasant—perhaps she had been a pretty younger woman—and Grace decided that the woman’s complexion was an apt accompaniment to the rich aroma that filled the kitchen at that moment; she was the color of creamed coffee. So this is what Darrel had fought to bring into her home. Grace remembered what Darrel had said on Friday about the woman—that she had lost her daughter and grandchild in an accident and had recently become a widow—and so Grace forced her face into a small smile as the woman stepped over and extended a hand. They shook.
“I’m Grace.”
“Arlene Gentry,” the older woman said in a voice whose texture also matched smooth coffee. “And I know who you are,” she remarked warmly, looking at Grace as if awestruck. Grace recognized the expression: Another fan of the ’76 Olympics.
The three of them chuckled. Grace laughed less than the others and only because it would have been rude not to laugh at all. She was distracted by the fact that the stranger was present—she thought Darrel had said the woman would not begin employment until next week. At the same time, she was also distracted by the handshake, which was lasting longer than Grace wanted it to. The old woman’s palm was smooth and dry, her nails tapered and unpainted. The skin over her knuckles was creased, and she wore an ordinary wedding ring. Grace slid her hand away—was the woman going to hold it forever?
“My husband didn’t tell me he was having anyone over today,” Grace said pleasantly. She cast Darrel a look that sought an explanation.
“Well, baby, I was supposed to meet her at the office and I wasn’t able to make it,” Darrel explained, “so I just asked her to come by and sign all the paperwork here. Um, and we just started talking and time passed and…”
Mrs. Gentry interrupted with a wave of the hand. “That’s not true,” she said. “He’s trying to cover for me. I wanted to meet you and see the place—that’s why I’m here. I apologize for the intrusion.”
Grace hesitated, appreciating the woman’s forthrightness.
“Mrs.—Gentry, is it? I’m—glad you stayed. We—needed to meet. It’s just that this week, I’ve begun tryouts for my ball team and, well, my husband knows what tryouts week is like for me—I am absolutely exhausted at the end of the day and the only thing I want when I get home is a bath and bed.” She tried a smile to lighten her words, then finished, “So perhaps the two of you can complete what needs to be done?” She looked at Darrel questioningly, but behind her eyes was a demand.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he said eagerly. “As a matter of fact, we’ve got the paperwork out of the way.”
“And she will be here—you will be here which two days?”
Mrs. Gentry glanced at Darrel as she spoke. “We were leaving that up to you. But…I thought Mondays and Thursdays might work well, with a house this size, and no children.”
Mondays and Thursdays—Grace quickly considered the offer and felt suddenly overcome by the thought. Every Monday and Thursday, someone would be in her house. All day. But she had made a promise to Darrel and, by extension, to the pleasant woman standing before her, so she stammered politely, “That—that—that’ll work. What time?” she asked them both.
“It’ll be after you leave for work,” answered Darrel, “unless you want her here in the mornings to cook breakfast for you.”
Grace was genuinely taken aback by the suggestion. “Cook br—?” she began. “I don’t need anybody to cook breakfast for me!” she declared in an incredulous laugh.
“I can cook a mean omelet!” Mrs. Gentry boasted.
Grace again had the feeling she was being overwhelmed—by what, she was not sure, but it was similar to the oppressive sensation she had experienced that morning, during the phone call with Tracy Sullivan’s aunt. A feeling of coercion. Of drowning.
“I don’t need anyone to cook my breakfast,” she repeated, looking at the woman.
“She already has a…a gate remote,” Darrel explained, stammering, “and-and the code to the house. I created what they call a…a maid’s code for her, which means it’s good only as long as she’s working for us. And I, uh, gave her a key.”
Grace was quiet, eyes on Darrel. Tension in her neck and shoulders raged; she might need to see Avadel again this week. In a moment, she was able to speak again. “I don’t…need anyone here…before I go to work, but everything else is okay. How’s eight o’clock sound?”
“I like to get started earlier than that, but if that’s what you prefer.”
“That’s what I prefer.”
“Then it’s fine with me.”
“And…how long do you plan to stay each day?”
“I’d say anywhere from five to six hours. Little longer, for laundry. Longer than that, if I cook dinner.”
“I see,” said Grace, hoping the woman would be gone by the time she, Grace, came home. “All right,” she approved.
Grace smiled quickly and politely at Mrs. Gentry, intending to end the meeting at that moment. But she noticed how the older woman was regarding her. Warmly and intently. Almost, Grace felt, in a scrutinizing manner. Probably some Seventh-day Adventist form of attentiveness that could prove to be highly annoying after a while. Darrel and his ideas. Grace sighed inwardly. She couldn’t back out of the deal now—she had promised him, after all, and besides, the lady had suffered so much tragedy already. Grace tightened her face into another smile.
“Nice meeting you. And you’ll start Monday of next week?”
The older woman looked at Darrel.
“Uh, well,” Darrel explained to Grace, “we—I thought she might as well start tomorrow, instead of waiting until Monday. I—already informed the Davenports…” His voice trailed off.
Grace stared at him. “Tomorrow’s the last day of tryouts, Darrel.”
“I know, that, baby, but I figure if it is the last day, you’ll be tired, and if she’s here you won’t have to do anything but come home, kick back, and eat whatever she’s cooked. She’s a great cook. She baked a cake for the pastor one Sunday and he slipped me a piece—Aw, man!” He shook his head in fond remembrance and looked at the older woman. “And I had some of your string beans at that,
uh, the church anniversary—you remember.” To Grace, he added, “They were the best thing at the dinner! Better than Mama’s!” Darrel and Mrs. Gentry laughed.
Grace again smiled politely at their laughter, at the laughter of her husband with this stranger, and said to the woman, “Well. Guess Darrel’s got it all worked out. You’ll be here tomorrow, then.” She walked away from them and, struck with a thought, hesitated long enough to add, “Oh, and I don’t eat meat and not a lot of dairy. I’m sure my husband’s told you?”
“Yes, he did,” Mrs. Gentry said pleasantly. “But you do make exception for eggs and seafood, and you don’t eat anything fried. And you only drink soy and almond milk. And for dessert, you prefer fresh fruit.”
Grace hesitated, startled, and glanced at Darrel, who was smiling smugly—he had, indeed, covered all the bases.
“I told her,” he said, “that you eat like a white woman.”
Mrs. Gentry grinned but this time wisely remained quiet.
Grace glanced at Darrel and tightened her face into a smile—but at the moment, a smile was the last thing she felt like giving him. She turned a final polite smile on the older woman and nodded in affirmation and farewell. Without another word she left the room.