The Odds of You and Me

by Cecilia Galante

  “Just a general pickup around the house today, I think.” Jane pauses. “The kids have been so messy lately. Just throwing everything around. They’re so careless, you know?”

  “All right.” I’m careful not to answer her question. There’s never any reason to get too personal with clients. Especially when it involves family stuff. “No problem. I’ll start upstairs, then.”

  Jane looks down at the baby, nods. “Everything’s where it usually is. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

  I head upstairs, grab Jane’s bucket of cleaning supplies out of the hallway closet, and let myself into the master bath. Jane buys the good stuff—real Windex, Murphy’s Oil soap, and Magic Eraser sponges—which makes the work so much easier. Most of our clients—Mr. Herron included—skimp on the cleaning supplies they are required to provide. I guess they think we can make do with the store-brand window cleaners and scratchy paper towels, but we really can’t. Junk like that makes the job twice as hard—since it doesn’t work the first time—and just leaves Ma and me exhausted.

  I spray down Jane’s black marble tub and the walk-in shower, then mop the black-and-white tiled floor and empty the garbage, which is full of pink, balled-up tissues. I pause, the way I always do when I move over to Jane’s vanity, and just look. It’s an enormous, richly veined marble countertop with his-and-her sinks. Above it is a three-way mirror lined on either side with grapefruit-sized lightbulbs. I push gently on the corner of her side of the mirror until it springs open, and then stand there, gazing.

  If Ma has told me once she’s told me a hundred times to keep away from closed doors. “People have a way of knowing if you’ve been in their things,” she warned. “Especially medicine cabinets. And once they find out you’re a snoop—even if you haven’t taken anything—you’re done. They’ll never ask you back.” I’d never take anything from anyone, but God, it’s fun to look. Especially at rich people’s things.

  The bottom shelves of Jane’s side of the mirror are filled with expensive skin serums and facial creams, undereye treatments and body masks. There’s a blue rubber thing with the eyes cut out, I guess for putting over your face, and a wide, round tub of something called “caviar-infused body butter.” Orange pill bottles line the top shelf, tallest to shortest, a small army of medicine; beneath it are the more practical items: Vaseline, rubbing alcohol, tweezers, even a tube of Preparation-H.

  Mr. Livingston’s side contains his own neat alignment of aftershaves and razors, dental floss, and a small drinking glass with three gold condoms inside. I take one of the condom pouches out, glance at the writing on the package: Extra thin for superior comfort. I wonder if Jane insists on them now, or if they were put here so long ago that he’s forgotten they’re still here. I place it back carefully. On the top shelf is one of those soap-on-a-rope things that looks as if it’s never been touched, and a square glass bottle filled with blue fluid. I take it out, uncap it gently, and sniff the nozzle. It smells like eucalyptus and musk and something I can’t place. Oranges, maybe. Lemons? No.

  James.

  It smells like James.

  WE WERE ON the stoop again, a flush of morning light in the distance, the blurry sound of the occasional car passing on the street behind us. He hadn’t had a cigarette yet for some reason, a detail I thought both interesting and odd, and his bandanna was missing. But he had his book. And when I finished hosing out the condiment holder and came to sit beside him the way I had taken to doing, he smiled at me and pointed to a line on one of the pages.

  I leaned in and read: “Although it’s been proven that all human beings possess their own distinct scent, some researchers hypothesize that there are only seven primary odors: musky, putrid, pungent, camphoraceous, ethereal, floral, and minty.”

  “What’s a camphoraceous smell?” I asked, straightening up again.

  “Like mothballs,” James answered. “I think.”

  “And ethereal?”

  “Dry cleaning fluid. I think.”

  “Hmm.” I tapped the back of my heel against the edge of the stoop. “I’ve never actually taken the time to think about it, but I doubt I smell like either of those. Or any of the other ones they mention.” I laughed. “Actually, I don’t smell like anything, really.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” He had closed the book, was looking at me with a vague sort of intensity.

  “I’m wrong?” I laughed again, but it was bubble-thin this time, settling at the back of my throat. “About what I smell like?”

  There could not have been more than six inches between us, but the time it took for him to move his face close to mine seemed to take minutes. Hours, even, as if he was moving in slow motion. I could feel the heat from his face as he held it there without moving, and it occurred to me that if I moved my head ever so slightly, our noses would bump and my mouth would brush up against his. I stayed very still, every cell thrumming beneath the surface, hardly daring to breathe.

  “You smell like rain,” he said finally, his breath warm against my ear. “The kind of rain that comes after a long stretch of hot, dry weather.” I could not bear the weight of his eyes against my face at such a close proximity; it felt somehow as if I were being held, not by arms and hands, but by longing, and I was afraid to give in to it, afraid of what might happen if I turned and met his gaze. Not to him. To me.

  “I don’t know what that smells like,” I heard myself whisper.

  “No?”

  I shook my head.

  He still hadn’t moved, and for a moment I wondered what it might feel like if his eyelashes brushed the side of my cheek. “It smells like relief,” he said. “Like liberation.”

  I turned then, not consciously, I don’t think, but because I had no choice, and looked into his face. His words, like his presence, demanded something of me, the very least of which was acknowledgment. Up close the scar across his face did not look ugly or menacing; it looked perfectly natural, as if it had belonged there from the beginning. I could smell, too, the scent of his skin; it was warm and blue and slightly citrusy, as if he might have been eating a lemon, and I wanted to say that I knew exactly what he meant about relief and liberation, because it was what he smelled of, too, but I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, the emotion inside it would spill out into tears and stupid, meaningless words. I leaned in instead as he met me halfway across that infinitesimal space, his hand cupping the side of my face and then sliding back behind my head so that he could pull me closer, all without ever taking his mouth off mine.

  And then I pulled back, hard and fast, as if an electrical current had shot up between us. I jumped to my feet and raced inside.

  IT TAKES ME over an hour to finish the children’s rooms, and when I come back downstairs, Jane is still in the kitchen, sitting in a window seat opposite the blue tiled butcher block. She is biting her nails ferociously; Olivia is asleep on her lap. “Okay, so the upstairs looks good.” I speak softly, so as not to wake the baby. “I’m gonna start on the basement, and then come back up and finish the first floor, all right?”

  Jane startles a little at the sound of my voice and drops her fingers. “Sure, that’s fine.” She blinks. “Boy, it’d be nice to get things done as quickly as you do. The other day, I started folding the kids’ laundry and it took me almost an entire hour to finish it.” She laughs softly, showing small, square teeth. “Of course, I like to get my seams straight. All those little armholes lined up.”

  “Yeah.” I try to laugh, but it comes out awkwardly. “I know what you mean.” Except that I don’t know what she means. I never match up seams or armholes when I fold Angus’s and my clothes; it’s enough most of the time that they are clean and in the right drawers. Jane has a tendency to talk to me like I’m an old high school girlfriend. And even though I am not her friend, even though I am not even in the same league as her, I always feel as though I have to respond. That if I don’t, she will get angry. Or maybe even fire me.

  “Bird, can I ask you what kind of laund
ry detergent you use?” Her pretty face has taken on a look of intensity; it’s a serious question. “I mean, for your son’s things. Do you use a different kind of detergent for him when you wash his clothes?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “How about when he was a baby?” Her forehead is furrowed. “You know, they have all those detergents now without dyes—they’re supposed to be so good for newborn skin. Did you ever use any of those?”

  I shrug, embarrassed not to have known—or even heard of—such a thing. “No.”

  Jane’s face falls. “No?”

  “No. Just Tide, mostly.”

  “Tide.” Jane says the word slowly, rolling it around in her mouth like a marble. “Yeah.”

  I point to the door that leads to the basement downstairs. “I really . . . I’m going to get started downstairs now, okay? I just don’t want to run out of time.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  I grab the bucket of cleaning supplies, head for the basement.

  “Bird?” Jane calls.

  I wince, back up a few steps until I can see her again. “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you something?” She pauses, ducking her head. “It’s sort of personal.”

  No. “Okay.”

  Jane looks down at the sleeping baby in her lap. “Do you like being a mother?”

  I glance sharply at her. Jane and I have only ever talked about Angus in passing—just the formalities, really, when she hired me. I tell all my clients that I have a child, in case I ever have to leave suddenly, or if there’s some kind of emergency. Jane doesn’t even know Angus’s name. “Yeah,” I say cautiously. “I do.”

  Jane nods, as if trying to catch up to the racing thoughts inside her head. “Can you . . . I mean, can you tell me what you like about it? Specifically, I mean?”

  Now my own thoughts are racing. No one’s ever asked me such a thing before. “Well . . . he’s my little guy.” I shrug, embarrassed again. “I just . . . I don’t know. I love everything about him.”

  Jane keeps nodding. She gets up, walks over to the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen, leans one hip against the edge. A long, odd moment passes as the two of us watch her trace her finger around one of the blue squares. Her other hand rests protectively around Olivia. “God, I’m sorry,” she says, looking up finally. “I can’t believe I just asked you that. I must sound like some kind of crazy person.”

  “No, no.” I am struggling to understand and then, just as quickly, let it go again. There’s nothing about this woman that I can relate to, and her oddities don’t seem worth any anxiety on my part. “You have a lot to deal with every day, having four. I only have the one.”

  She smiles. “Did you ever tell me his name?”

  “Angus.”

  “Angus!” Her whole face brightens. “Now that’s different! Where’d you come up with that one?”

  “Oh, it’s an old family name.” I glance toward the basement door again, try to imagine the look on Jane’s face if I told her about my AC/DC infatuation. She probably listens to Mozart in her spare time. Or Josh Grobin.

  “I love old names,” Jane says. “I was named after my grandmother. You have an interesting name, too, now that I think about it. Is Bird a family name?”

  She startles, as the sound of children shrieking is heard outside the front door. “Oh, no!” She grabs my hand, just before racing upstairs. “Tell them to be quiet!” she begs. “Please! Tell Genevieve to take them downstairs! They’ll wake the baby!”

  And before I have a chance to answer, she disappears, bolting upstairs with the still-sleeping newborn in her arms.

  AN HOUR OR so later, while I am wiping down the patio furniture on the back deck—black wrought iron with blue-and-white checkered seat cushions—Jane emerges again, holding a small paper bag. Olivia has been put down upstairs for a nap apparently, and Jane has arranged her hair in a ponytail. She’s changed into a new, pale pink shirt, too, with the sleeves rolled up, and taken her shoes off. Her toenails are painted a bright fuchsia color. “Hey,” she says, placing the bag down on the patio table. “I’ve been doing some spring cleaning of my own upstairs, and I came across a ton of these sample size beauty products that I thought you might like.”

  I straighten up, glance self-consciously at the bag. Does she suspect me of looking through her beauty cabinet? Or maybe she just thinks I need beauty products?

  Jane withdraws a few plastic tubs, studying the front of them, and then begins to line them up on the cloudy glass countertop. They’re all white, miniature-sized, and covered with black writing. “There’s some kind of body butter, a deep conditioning treatment, some shampoos, body wash, cuticle cream.” She looks over at me. “Do you ever use cuticle cream?”

  “What is it?”

  She laughs. “Well, I guess that answers that question. You know, I should be using cuticle cream. Maybe it would help me not to bite my nails so much.” She takes a few more items out of the bag. “This stuff for undereye circles works like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve been using it for years. I love it.” She glances up. “Not that you have to worry about stuff like undereye circles yet. But, you know, I thought you might want it anyway. Just to have. And these scented body wipes are great, too. I threw in a whole bunch for you. You can use them in a pinch if you get really sweaty and just want to wipe off a little. They’re really small, but they smell so good, like spearmint and lavender. I always keep a handful of them in the glove compartment, just in case.”

  I pick up a small tube, read the writing on the front: Chanel Enzyme Facial Scrub. I’ve heard of Chanel, seen the brand in magazines. It’s expensive. So why is she giving them away? Jane leans over my shoulder, examining the tube, too. “Oooh, their enzyme facial scrubs are heaven! Have you ever used them?”

  I shake my head, grin a little. “I don’t even remember what an enzyme is.”

  “Oh, it’s just some fancy kind of exfoliant,” Jane says. “You know, to slough all the dead stuff off your skin. It’ll make your whole face glow. Seriously. Promise me you’ll try this tonight. I’m telling you, you’ll see a difference in the morning.”

  But I put the tube back in the bag, pick up my cleaning cloth again. “I don’t . . .” I start, shaking my head. “I mean, I appreciate you thinking of me, but I really wouldn’t use this stuff.”

  “Any of it?” Jane looks as if I’ve just told her I quit.

  “Well, no. Not really.”

  “How about your mother?”

  I stare down at the table. I know she’s trying to be nice. But can’t she see how weird this is? How uncomfortable I feel? I’m already her cleaning lady. I wipe the inside of her toilets, get down on my hands and knees and scrub her bathroom floors. Does she really expect me to accept her leftovers, too?

  “Please,” Jane says. “Just take them.”

  “Um . . .” I say stiffly. “Okay.”

  Jane starts putting the items back in the bag. Her ponytail swings lightly, and she’s holding her bottom lip with her teeth. “I hope I haven’t been out of line or anything. It’s not that I think you need any of this stuff. I really just thought you might like it.”

  I take the bag, give her a small, apologetic smile. “It’s okay. I didn’t think that.”

  “Okay.” Jane turns to leave, sliding the heavy glass door. She’s so small that she has to use both hands, pulling back with her whole weight to get it open. “I hope your mother enjoys them, too.”

  “Thanks,” I say as she steps back into the house. And then: “Oh, Jane?” She turns, fingering one pearl stud. “Would you happen to have any more work I could do in the next few days?”

  “More work?” Jane’s brow furrows. “You mean than you already do?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah. I need to make a little extra money by Thursday, and I was hoping I could pick up a few extra cleaning jobs.” I shrug. “Do you have anything extra you need done? After hours, maybe? Or even at night?”

  H
er face creases into another thoughtful expression. “You know, it’s funny you ask actually. We just had a new play set delivered for the kids the other day, but the guy couldn’t stay to put it together. He said he could come back next week, but I was actually going to give it a go myself so that they could start enjoying it now.” She cocks her head. “How ’bout it? You game for a few hours of huffing and puffing, trying to get a plastic playhouse together?”

  I grin. “That sounds great.”

  “It’d have to be late,” Jane says. “After the kids go to bed, since I want to keep it a surprise. Can you come tomorrow night at seven? I don’t know how long it’ll take us, but I would count on staying at least a few hours.”

  “That’s perfect,” I say, giving her a nod. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 11

  I have until five o’clock to pick up Angus from the after-school program; after that, they start charging by the hour. Twenty dollars an hour, to be exact, which I can’t afford. T-ball practice starts at five-thirty, and since I forgot to pack a change of clothes for him this morning, I have to swing by the house first, too, so that I can grab all his gear. I am in a state of near panic as I leave Jane’s at 4:50 and hightail it downtown. And yet, as I race along the quiet side streets and take a shortcut through the parking lot at Walmart, I find myself thinking about her again. Maybe I’m being too hard on her, criticizing her generosity, thinking her desperate questions about motherhood a sign of weakness or, worse, instability. She did just have a baby, after all. The first six months after Angus was born, I was so tired all the time that my brain felt like pudding. Watching TV didn’t help; not even the funny stuff on the late-night talk shows seemed to register. Whole days seemed to come and then disappear again without my even knowing it.

  I’m no expert, but maybe Jane is having problems inside her marriage, too. It’s possible. We’ve never talked about it, of course, but I get the feeling that her husband isn’t around all that much. And I’m guessing that being alone all day with three kids plus a newborn and waiting for someone to come home could make you a little batty. She probably needs a break. Just a chance to go do something on her own or with a bunch of girlfriends who require nothing from her except her presence. God knows I’ve felt that way over the last few years. Every once in a while, when it gets to be too much and I feel as though I might start gnawing my own arm off if I don’t get out of the house, I’ll kiss Angus good-night and tell Ma I’m going out.