My life as a rat, p.23
My Life as a Rat, page 23
But the bills and other items scattered through the apartment had not been there when Felice and I had cleaned it together.
This is new. This is for my sake. But—no.
By this time I had cleaned for other clients at the Agency, uneventfully—all women. No games. No one remotely like Orlando Metti.
WORKING ALONE IN THE APARTMENT I BECAME APPREHENSIVE, anxious—waiting for the client’s key in the lock. Waiting for him to return.
Obsessively shutting off the vacuum cleaner so that I could hear more clearly if he was at the door—but no. Not yet.
I’d learned: Metti had been divorced eighteen months before. In the rooms of the apartment there were no visible reminders of a past: no photographs of a family.
No wedding pictures, family pictures, baby pictures. Not even pictures of Metti at a younger age. Works of art, framed, under glass, prints and lithographs by artists of whom I’d vaguely heard, on the walls, tastefully neutral colors, abstract designs. A row of framed Modigliani prints, ethereally thin nudes, young girls with beautiful mask-faces, small sculpted breasts. That was all: nothing personal. As if the man had divorced not just a wife but also an entire shared past.
Wistfully I thought—That is the way.
The only way of salvation.
Digging out weeds. Yanking out weeds. Toss onto the compost, into a bushel basket.
Recalling from my mother’s garden how quickly even the sturdiest weeds would go limp, begin to die.
This was heartlessness, and heartlessness meant survival. Extirpate the past like weeds.
Metti wasn’t a medical doctor, I’d learned. Instead, an administrator at the Saint Lawrence Biomedical Institute, a research center. His degree was not an M.D. but a Ph.D. How rich was the man? I wondered. Not knowing what rich might mean, exactly.
Forty-three years old. At least six feet two or three. Towering over me as I’d towered over Felice. Or so it seemed.
And there was comfort in this, the man’s height. As there was comfort in the man’s confident manner, the modulation of his voice, the very dark eyes, the air of restraint and reticence where another man, in such close quarters with a lone young female, might have exuded an air of sexual aggression.
Beautiful clothes he wore. Closets of clothes. Shirts of fine cotton or linen, in pale, pastel colors, with thin stripes. Trousers with a precise crease. Sports coats of soft wool flannel, rich tweeds. (There were several suits in Metti’s closets. But I would never see Orlando Metti in a suit.) Handsome leather shoes, black. Always kept polished to perfection.
He’d asked me to polish these shoes, once or twice. See if you can remove the scuff. Thanks! The elegant shirts that required ironing were done at the dry cleaner’s and not entrusted to a cleaning-woman.
Sometimes he asked me, would I pick up these shirts? An errand that wouldn’t take more than a half hour. Usually.
And sometimes he asked me, could I run out to the drugstore and pick up a prescription refill and while I was there, in the store, could I buy a few small items for him?—Thanks so much.
A terrible sick rage stirred in me, for the individual who lived in this lavish apartment. Who owned such elegant clothing, and who took advantage of his employee’s wish to please him. His employee’s need to survive.
Your mother oughtn’t to have let you. This voice, I could not recognize. It was not an accusation, I wanted to think.
FALLING IN LOVE WITH AN EMPLOYER. YOU HAVE TO BE VERY naive, foolish, or stupid. Or desperate.
HOUSEWORK IS GRIM WORK. HOUSEWORK IS SOLITARY WORK. YOU are made to toil in the service of another’s house. You are made to inhabit the interior of another’s life. You are made to experience an unnatural and one-sided intimacy.
Hairs in drains, stains in toilets and on sheets, indefinable smells that make you gag. Clothes, underwear carelessly flung down for someone else to pick up. Disheveled beds, soiled towels. A spillage of shoes underfoot, no matter if they are expensive leather shoes—too much intimacy.
The scummy condition of his safety razor. Broken, yellowed bristles of old toothbrushes, for what unfathomable reason saved beneath a bathroom sink.
Dishes encrusted with food, soaking in gray water in the kitchen sink. In the dishwasher, more dishes, glasses, silverware encrusted with food which I would have to chip away with a knife, scrub off with steel wool, before they could be properly washed in the machine.
Scattered through the rooms of the apartment were dirtied glasses. In some of these, remnants of alcohol that smelled sharply. Whiskey glasses, wineglasses. Beer glasses. Occasionally, those delicate glasses I’d learned were for champagne.
Felice had taught me: start the laundry as soon as you can. Strip the beds, gather the towels, haul the soiled-laundry baskets into the laundry room and start the machine. The time you spend housecleaning should approximate the time required to do the client’s laundry for you may have to do more than one load and you must make sure that the clothes are sufficiently dry before you leave. Especially, you must not—ever—put away damp things, for the client will discover them and be unhappy.
Wash, dry, sort, fold, put away. Repeat.
Felice had taught me: never leave a room until you’ve checked it thoroughly, all the corners, ceiling, floor, and beneath furniture especially beds where filth can gather. Then, check it a second time.
Still, Dr. Metti had not valued Felice, much. She’d assumed a good relationship with the (single, male) client who tipped more generously than other clients but he’d dropped her, the more experienced house-cleaner, with a single curt call to the Agency.
Just the girl. Not the other.
When Ava informed me I’d felt a sensation of panic. But then, later, satisfaction. For I’d been preferred, unfairly.
Fact is: one day I would be Felice. And another young girl, not beautiful but young, with that expression of naive curiosity, wonder, sexual possibility in her face would supplant me.
You know I want to fuck you, dear. Is it—Violet?
I knew this. But, I did not wish to know this.
Thinking of how my mother, as a girl, cleaning houses on Highgate Avenue, had been approached by her employers. Some of her employers.
For all that I knew, my young mother had allowed these strangers to exploit her. She may have clipped the old man’s gnarly toenails, she may have massaged the old man’s flaccid body. Certainly she’d have said yes if he’d asked her to do extra work for him without the cleaning service being any the wiser. Off the books.
Thinking these things. Dragging the vacuum cleaner from room to room while in another part of the apartment the lonely little French bulldog was barking. Here I am! Feed me! Free me! Love me!
Each Thursday the forlorn sound of the little dog barking tore at my heart. Yet I could not allow Brindle to run free as I worked, he would cause too much commotion. Nor did Metti allow him in most of the rooms for he had a mischievous habit of dribbling urine.
The little bulldog was someone else’s responsibility, not mine. I wanted to think so.
When at last I opened the door to the sparely furnished, carpetless small room in which he was kept Brindle blinked at me in astonishment as if for a magical moment he’d convinced himself that I was not a stranger but his beloved mistress, who seemed to have abandoned him; then the frantic barking began again. I was hurt that Brindle didn’t seem to recognize me from the previous week. Or wouldn’t forgive me for being the wrong person.
Each week, I had to win the little dog’s trust another time. Each week, the little dog’s tremulous affection, that seemed scarcely distinguishable from terror.
How strange, this breed of dog! A miniature bulldog, scarcely as large as a cat, with a very short, compressed face, bizarrely flattened pug nose, enormous wide-set shining eyes that bulged in their sockets. Deep-chested, short-legged, dwarfish. His coat was stiff-haired, brown mingled with white. Yet there was something elegant about the dog, so unlike the coarse-haired mongrels of my childhood who were free to roam the neighborhood and were never “walked” on leashes.
You had to laugh at Brindle, he took himself so seriously. No idea of his small size though when he tried to run, he sometimes tripped and fell. To me he displayed bared teeth, raised hackles. Panting, and growling deep in his throat. Sharp toenails that clattered against the hardwood floor as he slid and skidded about trying to gain traction and rush at my legs. I wondered—was this miniature animal going to attack me? Bite me? Hadn’t I been the one to take him on a walk the previous week when the master hadn’t had time for him?
“Brindle, no. I am your friend.”
He’d overturned his water bowl. He’d devoured all his dry food. A puddle on the tile floor—urine. Quickly I cleaned up the puddle, mopped and cleaned the floor before Metti arrived and was furious.
Bleach, Dutch cleanser. Windex. Doggy-Out! Paper towels. With rubber-gloved hands fending off Brindle feinting and rushing at me.
Felice had been frightened of the little bulldog, taking him at his own self-assessment. She’d complained of having to clean up after a dog though (it seemed to me) this was hardly the dog’s fault, that he was so neglected; Brindle had no choice other than to make messes indoors, and wherever he could in the apartment when he was able to run freely barking and knocking things over with the joy of abandon. Felice had told me that Brindle belonged jointly to Metti’s ex-wife and their daughter, and that the daughter was away at college in another state and couldn’t bring Brindle with her; the ex-wife was living somewhere not far away but in another city, unable or unwilling to take on the responsibility of the damned little dog.
I could not decide if the deep-chested bulldog, with his short legs, and ridiculous mashed-in face, was ugly or in his eccentric way beautiful. It seemed sad to me that he was so lonely for companionship. Ravenous for food and for affection. Dutifully I fed him, and replenished the water bowl, that had become scummy since last Thursday and would have to be scrubbed clean. With a tissue I tried to wipe away mucus that had gathered in his eyes but he shied away from me with a little whimper as if I’d hurt him. Badly the room reeked of dog, I dreaded Dr. Metti reacting in disgust and blaming me.
Last time he’d said, reprovingly—This place needs airing out. Please.
A previous time he’d said—Not all the stains are out of that rug in the foyer. Try again. Please.
I wondered if anyone had spoken to Brindle with affection since the previous Thursday. Or had spoken to Brindle at all.
After he’d eaten, and sloppily lapped up water, Brindle reconsidered me and decided that I was his friend. His stubby little tail whipped back and forth. His hindquarters quivered. My heart was suffused with an exasperated sort of affection for the damned little dog.
But exertion caused Brindle to pant, wheeze. I knew that miniature bulldogs are prone to respiratory ailments. Their joints become arthritic as they age, they are susceptible to many health problems. The compact little creatures are bred for display, not for survival. Not for their own sake but to flatter an owner’s vanity.
Brindle had lulled me into petting him, and speaking to him, and not watching the opened door behind me; he managed to dart past me, out into the hallway skidding on his toenails, and into the living room where I dreaded he would leak urine in his excitable state, onto the newly shampooed soft-beautiful-beige-woolen carpet from Ecuador . . .
“Oh, Brindle. Oh no.”
I wondered if the little French bulldog was the punishment the former Mrs. Metti and the daughter were inflicting upon Metti for his having expelled them from his life.
By the time I finished re-cleaning the carpet, and putting away most of the laundry, and dragging the vacuum cleaner back into its storage closet, there came a sound of a key in a door—the door opening at last. Metti had returned.
A shock of anticipation ran through me. Like Brindle, in an instant I was alerted to the arrival of the master.
Hesitantly Brindle trotted toward Metti. His hindquarters were quivering. His tail moved hesitantly. He was eager to greet the master yet fearful of the master. I didn’t want to think that the master sometimes “disciplined” him—struck him or gave him a kick.
“Ah. You’re still here, Violet—is it? Violet.”
Metti greeted me courteously. I saw his eyes moving on me more readily than in the past, when he’d scarcely noticed me at all.
With an effort, Metti greeted the little dog. Laughed at the dog’s antics. Damned if he’d acknowledge how irritated he was with the dog, in my presence. Like a parent with a disfigured and obstreperous child, wishing to be rid of it but not when others were observing.
I was feeling very warm. Metti’s gaze made me uneasy. Through a roaring in my ears I could barely concentrate on what he was saying. The gist of it was, could I spare a few minutes to do a favor for him, by taking Brindle for a quick walk?—“I will pay you of course.”
It was gratifying to feel that Metti had come to depend upon me in such ways; yet, it made me anxious that I had already spent so much of the afternoon cleaning the apartment, and dealing with the little dog, I hadn’t had time to complete the reading assignment for that evening’s class. Also, during the housecleaning it had come upon me with a small thrill of horror that I had yet to prepare a one-page, single-spaced critique of the assignment, to be handed in that evening.
But I had to say yes. I could not say no to the man who smiled at me so warmly, and who had secreted bills and little treasures for me in his apartment, as a game; or as a suggestion of what I might claim, if I wished.
When I returned from walking Brindle in the light-falling snow Metti greeted me at the door and took the dog’s leash from me. He thanked me profusely, and asked me another time if I would like a drink before leaving; but now I did tell him no, for really I had to leave. My pulse was quickened, snowflakes were melting in my hair. I could not raise my eyes to Metti’s face for I wondered if I seemed beautiful to him, in that instant.
“Tell you what, Violet. Stay, have a drink, and I’ll drive you home. Or—to the university? D’you have a class tonight? I think you said.”
Metti was breathing audibly as if he’d been running. He did not step toward me. Yet, I would recall that he’d stepped toward me.
Quickly I told him No thank you. Suddenly eager to escape.
Not even noticing, until I stepped dazedly out of the elevator on the ground floor, that the bill Orlando Metti had pressed into my hand at the door was a fifty-dollar bill.
I’D CONSIDERED INFORMING THE AGENCY THAT I DIDN’T WANT to return to Dr. Metti’s apartment. And why? Has the client harassed you?
No. No!
IF YOU WON’T FUCK ME, YOU’RE DONE. WE’LL GIVE IT ANOTHER week or two. Understand? Sure you do, you’re not stupid.
JERR SAYS, OK, LET ME FIX IT.
Squatting beside my bicycle. Frowning at the jammed chain.
I’d been riding my bike in the street when something happened to make the wheels lock, I’d fallen tangled with the bike, shuddering with pain as my right leg was dragged against the pavement so that my jeans tore at the knee, a bright burst of blood seeped through the fabric.
Blue Schwinn bike with balloon tires, already an old, discontinued model when Daddy brought it home for me, a trade for carpentry work he’d done for a friend. I’d been ten years old, totally thrilled.
Falling from the bike on Black Rock Street within sight of the house but there’d been no one to hear my cries, I’d had to drag myself home limping and bleeding.
And now, Jerr is repairing the bike for me. For in my dreams of my brothers, Jerr is alive. He and Lionel are just boys. When they’d liked Violet Rue, or anyway had tolerated Violet Rue, as the youngest sister who adored them.
The time before I’d learned to fear them. Before they’d learned to despise me.
SHAME. THE EX-WIFE WHO CALLS METTI TOO OFTEN, LEAVES (drunken?) rambling messages on his answering machine which I am tempted to erase out of shame for a woman so abased, abandoned.
Never! I would never.
Absolutely never beg.
Not me!
EVIDENCE. IN EACH OF THE (THREE) BATHROOMS, IN THE SINKS, on the tile floors, in shower drains there have been strands of hair conspicuously longer, different in color from Orlando Metti’s hair which is dark, gray-streaked.
In a bureau drawer in his bedroom, a silky black nightgown—smelling of faint, fragrant perspiration.
Yes, I’d pressed the nightgown against my face. Yes, my eyes had closed in a swoon of angry rapture.
On a bathroom counter, a half-empty tube of maroon lipstick.
On a shelf in the shower, an unfamiliar brand of hair conditioner.
On a bedside table, a jar of what appeared to be face cream or moisturizer, a French brand—Yves Rocher. So rich and buttery, I am tempted to rub some of it on my face.
Quickly removing the rubber gloves from my hands, that stuck to my fingers. Always, the gloves felt moist, even wet inside. I thought there had to be a tiny pinprick in the rubber but I haven’t been able to locate it. Hated the feel of the gloves and wished never to have to wear them again.
It was rare that I paused to examine anything in a client’s house. The women whose houses I cleaned had little that appealed to me—clothes, jewelry, cosmetics, husbands. Possessions.
I wasn’t jealous/envious of their lives. In thrall to the husband, or rather to the idea of the husband of years before now fading, vanished.
Recalling my mother’s stricken face when Daddy stared at her coldly, insulted her. Look. You were the one who got pregnant, not me. You were the one who wanted children.
Sure he’d loved her. This was the voice of love. Sometimes meant to hurt, and sometimes just for laughs. For other men, husbands of other wives, could be counted upon to laugh heartily.
