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Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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children at the boarding house, not with all those old women living on their retirement checks. For the first time since the horror of Gabriel's and Stevie's deaths, she faced a child, a boy child who reminded her strongly of her own dark-haired sons. She could not speak or move. She could not swallow or draw a breath.
She wanted to die.
A tall woman wearing an orange sundress and an orange headband to match, placed her hands on the boy's shoulders and pulled him toward her into the entrance way. “Oh, I see you're right on time,” she said to Kay. “I've always been able to depend on Severenson for good people. Please come in. This is Andrew. Say hello, Andrew.”
“Hi,” he said again, giving her a mischievous smile. “My mother isn't in the bathroom now.”
“Oh Andrew! You'll have to forgive him, he's at that stage where he says anything that comes into his head.” She stooped to admonish the boy. “That isn't polite to tell strangers when mommy is in the bathroom. All right?” He nodded, and she stood to usher Kay inside and closed the door. The house opened out from the tiled entrance into a modern, airy cathedral space with a two-story ceiling where a balcony overhang looked over the living area.
“Andrew and I will be gone until noon or one. If you finish by then, you can lock the front door from the inside on your way out. I don't have any special things for you to do, just . . . uh . . . you know, clean it up the best you can.” She waved a bejeweled hand around the room at the scattered stacks of magazines, newspapers, two empty cups and saucers on the wood-and-brass coffee table. Kay had lived like this once, privileged, her home more a thing to show off to business partners than a place for living. Her first husband came back to find it wrecked. And it certainly served him right. She wondered idly if this woman ever checked up on her husband's late hours at the office, his “business” trips.
Kay had not yet said anything, she had not been able to. She kept seeing her sons, holding them, cherishing them, loving them. She saw them laughing, bathing, playing with their toys on the den floor. She couldn't withdraw from the past when the past held her so rigidly in its grasp.
“Do you think you'll be able to find your way around? The cleaning supplies are in the kitchen on the counter, I set them out for you, and in the downstairs' bathroom, again on the counter so you could find them. All right?”
Andrew had sidled over to where Kay stood mute near the coffee table and now he took the loose fingers of her right hand into his own. She glanced down at the touch and her smile was beatific. “He's a beautiful boy,” she said to the mother. “Such lovely eyes. Brown.”
The woman wasn't listening. She had found her purse on the entrance table and the keys to her car inside. She was gesturing Andrew to hurry. “We've got your piano lesson and then we have to meet daddy for lunch. Hurry up now, we don't want to be late.”
When the front door closed, the latch snicking shut, Kay shook herself as if she were coming in from a rain shower. She didn't know how long she could stand this. She wondered if every child she saw would affect her so keenly, or if it would be just boy children. What about little girls, or babies? Did everyone she might clean for have children? How could she bear it if they did?
Rage filled her again, coming up from her gut to her torso and finally suffusing her brain until the room turned red. She blinked, unclenched her fists. She made herself walk through the house to the kitchen for the cleaning products. She did a load of dishes in the dishwasher, cleaned the white counter, mopped the red-tiled floor. She had to finish before noon. She wanted out of this house and away from another meeting with Andrew. Next time she might break down and weep. She might lose her job. She might never come out of this as a survivor. Damnit, if she would let that happen.
Severenson sent
She wanted to die.
A tall woman wearing an orange sundress and an orange headband to match, placed her hands on the boy's shoulders and pulled him toward her into the entrance way. “Oh, I see you're right on time,” she said to Kay. “I've always been able to depend on Severenson for good people. Please come in. This is Andrew. Say hello, Andrew.”
“Hi,” he said again, giving her a mischievous smile. “My mother isn't in the bathroom now.”
“Oh Andrew! You'll have to forgive him, he's at that stage where he says anything that comes into his head.” She stooped to admonish the boy. “That isn't polite to tell strangers when mommy is in the bathroom. All right?” He nodded, and she stood to usher Kay inside and closed the door. The house opened out from the tiled entrance into a modern, airy cathedral space with a two-story ceiling where a balcony overhang looked over the living area.
“Andrew and I will be gone until noon or one. If you finish by then, you can lock the front door from the inside on your way out. I don't have any special things for you to do, just . . . uh . . . you know, clean it up the best you can.” She waved a bejeweled hand around the room at the scattered stacks of magazines, newspapers, two empty cups and saucers on the wood-and-brass coffee table. Kay had lived like this once, privileged, her home more a thing to show off to business partners than a place for living. Her first husband came back to find it wrecked. And it certainly served him right. She wondered idly if this woman ever checked up on her husband's late hours at the office, his “business” trips.
Kay had not yet said anything, she had not been able to. She kept seeing her sons, holding them, cherishing them, loving them. She saw them laughing, bathing, playing with their toys on the den floor. She couldn't withdraw from the past when the past held her so rigidly in its grasp.
“Do you think you'll be able to find your way around? The cleaning supplies are in the kitchen on the counter, I set them out for you, and in the downstairs' bathroom, again on the counter so you could find them. All right?”
Andrew had sidled over to where Kay stood mute near the coffee table and now he took the loose fingers of her right hand into his own. She glanced down at the touch and her smile was beatific. “He's a beautiful boy,” she said to the mother. “Such lovely eyes. Brown.”
The woman wasn't listening. She had found her purse on the entrance table and the keys to her car inside. She was gesturing Andrew to hurry. “We've got your piano lesson and then we have to meet daddy for lunch. Hurry up now, we don't want to be late.”
When the front door closed, the latch snicking shut, Kay shook herself as if she were coming in from a rain shower. She didn't know how long she could stand this. She wondered if every child she saw would affect her so keenly, or if it would be just boy children. What about little girls, or babies? Did everyone she might clean for have children? How could she bear it if they did?
Rage filled her again, coming up from her gut to her torso and finally suffusing her brain until the room turned red. She blinked, unclenched her fists. She made herself walk through the house to the kitchen for the cleaning products. She did a load of dishes in the dishwasher, cleaned the white counter, mopped the red-tiled floor. She had to finish before noon. She wanted out of this house and away from another meeting with Andrew. Next time she might break down and weep. She might lose her job. She might never come out of this as a survivor. Damnit, if she would let that happen.
Severenson sent
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