013/2012 The Housekeeper

Word Count: 477

The family left for three weeks in Italy. They took the nanny and butler and maid. The chauffeur was let off for his own vacation, somewhere up north on a lake where he spent every day fishing, stocking his pantry with supplies for the length of the stay so he wouldn’t have to drive at all.

But they left her behind, “to take care of the house,” since as housekeeper for twenty-three years, who better to trust? Still, she’d always wanted to travel but they never seemed to invite her along.

For two days she vacuumed and dusted. Changed bedding and picked up the God-awful mess they’d left. She went grocery shopping for things that she loved and they hated. Kidneys and ground round and Hamburger Helper. Cauliflower and limburger cheese.

She slept upstairs in the master bedroom. Showered and dressed in the bath that was three times the size of her own little room off the kitchen. Handy and ready to clean up after their late night snacks.

She put the mauve satin sheets on the bed and sprayed them with perfume. The one that madame liked. To be honest, it kept her awake and she washed out the pillows before she slept there another night.

The large screen TV slid down at the press of a button. The stereo was on the same remote. The bed had its own set of buttoned controls, as did the drapes that she flew open in the morning and danced closed at night. The bathtub was as big as a pool and the waterfall down the wall flowed at three different speeds. She knew how everything worked because she did the cleaning. It hadn’t occurred to her just what a luxury all this was.

She held a dinner party the first Saturday night to which she invited some people she’d met at the store. The cashier on register one and her husband. The produce manager and his wife and four kids. She had to admit they were better behaved than madame’s. The drycleaner’s family, the bank teller’s too, and the package store owner who brought over a lovely Merlot.

They had a grand time and laughed long into the evening, she closed the door on the last guest just before the grandfather clock in the foyer struck twelve.
She shut off the lights and wound her way up the stairs where she dressed in madame’s silk nightgown, sprawled on the huge bed, and passed out.

Leaving the dishes undone. Not even clearing the table. Though she did finish up the wine.

It was madame who found her. Struck with an instant headache when they walked through the door; the stench overwhelming, wineglasses, plates rotted with cheese left on side tables, the dining room buzzing with flies. The police guessed that she’d forgotten to lock the front door.