grandchildren, who live down the street, come in and out several times a week.
Helen Drinkwater is a woman who likes things done exactly to her taste, and she has a room-by-room checklist of things I should accomplish in the three and a half hours I am there. At first, Mrs. Drinkwater actually tried to get me to check things off the list and leave a checked list in each room, but I wouldn’t. In fact, as I was learning the Drinkwater house, the list was helpful, but it would have felt like a paint-by-numbers kit if I’d checked the little boxes.
Mrs. Drinkwater (I have sworn never to call her Helen) hadn’t said a thing. I’d left the list in the exact middle of the room each time I’d cleaned the house the first few visits.
Then Mrs. Drinkwater had left a pile of dirty clothes by the washer with a note asking me to “pop these in the washer and dryer for me.” The first time it happened, I had fumed and done it; the second time, I left a note myself, which said, “Not on any of my lists,” and after that, Helen Drinkwater had not added to my duties.
The two-story turn-of-the-century family home looked especially pretty in the clear, warm morning light. The house is pale yellow, with white trim and dark green shutters, and it is set far back from the street. Of course, a house like this is in the oldest surviving section of Shakespeare, and it has at least half an acre of woods behind it, which the Drinkwaters have left untouched.
This morning, I had a lot to think about. Marshall had said he was separated from Thea, and he’d said it as if that was significant to me. As I scrubbed the second-floor bathroom, I wondered if Marshall still had that spark of feeling for me after last night. The few times in the past I’d felt more than calm acceptance of a man, all I’d had to do to make him run was to tell him what had happened to me. Except one man, who’d gotten so excited that he’d tried to force himself on me. I’d hurt him, but it had taken time and a struggle. After that, I’d been ready to try martial arts, which has turned out to be the most pleasurable element in my life.
These thoughts tapped at my consciousness like raindrops hitting the sidewalk, thoughts that were significant but not wholly engrossing. I was also thinking about the Drinkwaters’ bathtub ring, and what to do with the comic book I’d found behind the toilet. So it wasn’t until the floorboards downstairs creaked a second time that I came to attention.
I became absolutely still, the sponge in my hand held motionless an inch from the surface of the sink. I was looking into the mirror over the sink, but I was not seeing myself. I was trying to make sense of the floorboards.
The Drinkwaters always leave the kitchen door unlocked when they depart at eight-fifteen, knowing I will be here at eight-thirty. I lock it behind myself when I get here, though daytime burglaries are unknown in this section of Shakespeare.
Someone had gotten in the house in that fifteen minutes.
I shut my eyes to listen harder. I tried to pull off my rubber gloves without making a sound. I set them in the sink. He’d not yet started up the stairs; I could improve my position.
There wasn’t time to take off my shoes. I stepped silently out of the bathroom, trying to remember where the creaking boards upstairs were. If I could flatten myself against the wall at the beginning of the hall, which leads off at right angles from the stairs, I would be ready to strike when the intruder reached the top.
I crept closer to the stairs, flexing my hands to loosen the muscles. My heart had begun pounding heavily, and I felt a little light-headed, but I was ready—I would not be afraid; I would fight.
I should relax; I felt the tightness of my muscles; it would slow me down…so many things to think of.
He was on the stairs.
My hands clenched into fists and my leg muscles were hard and tense. My blood pounded harder through my heart.
A little noise, like
Helen Drinkwater is a woman who likes things done exactly to her taste, and she has a room-by-room checklist of things I should accomplish in the three and a half hours I am there. At first, Mrs. Drinkwater actually tried to get me to check things off the list and leave a checked list in each room, but I wouldn’t. In fact, as I was learning the Drinkwater house, the list was helpful, but it would have felt like a paint-by-numbers kit if I’d checked the little boxes.
Mrs. Drinkwater (I have sworn never to call her Helen) hadn’t said a thing. I’d left the list in the exact middle of the room each time I’d cleaned the house the first few visits.
Then Mrs. Drinkwater had left a pile of dirty clothes by the washer with a note asking me to “pop these in the washer and dryer for me.” The first time it happened, I had fumed and done it; the second time, I left a note myself, which said, “Not on any of my lists,” and after that, Helen Drinkwater had not added to my duties.
The two-story turn-of-the-century family home looked especially pretty in the clear, warm morning light. The house is pale yellow, with white trim and dark green shutters, and it is set far back from the street. Of course, a house like this is in the oldest surviving section of Shakespeare, and it has at least half an acre of woods behind it, which the Drinkwaters have left untouched.
This morning, I had a lot to think about. Marshall had said he was separated from Thea, and he’d said it as if that was significant to me. As I scrubbed the second-floor bathroom, I wondered if Marshall still had that spark of feeling for me after last night. The few times in the past I’d felt more than calm acceptance of a man, all I’d had to do to make him run was to tell him what had happened to me. Except one man, who’d gotten so excited that he’d tried to force himself on me. I’d hurt him, but it had taken time and a struggle. After that, I’d been ready to try martial arts, which has turned out to be the most pleasurable element in my life.
These thoughts tapped at my consciousness like raindrops hitting the sidewalk, thoughts that were significant but not wholly engrossing. I was also thinking about the Drinkwaters’ bathtub ring, and what to do with the comic book I’d found behind the toilet. So it wasn’t until the floorboards downstairs creaked a second time that I came to attention.
I became absolutely still, the sponge in my hand held motionless an inch from the surface of the sink. I was looking into the mirror over the sink, but I was not seeing myself. I was trying to make sense of the floorboards.
The Drinkwaters always leave the kitchen door unlocked when they depart at eight-fifteen, knowing I will be here at eight-thirty. I lock it behind myself when I get here, though daytime burglaries are unknown in this section of Shakespeare.
Someone had gotten in the house in that fifteen minutes.
I shut my eyes to listen harder. I tried to pull off my rubber gloves without making a sound. I set them in the sink. He’d not yet started up the stairs; I could improve my position.
There wasn’t time to take off my shoes. I stepped silently out of the bathroom, trying to remember where the creaking boards upstairs were. If I could flatten myself against the wall at the beginning of the hall, which leads off at right angles from the stairs, I would be ready to strike when the intruder reached the top.
I crept closer to the stairs, flexing my hands to loosen the muscles. My heart had begun pounding heavily, and I felt a little light-headed, but I was ready—I would not be afraid; I would fight.
I should relax; I felt the tightness of my muscles; it would slow me down…so many things to think of.
He was on the stairs.
My hands clenched into fists and my leg muscles were hard and tense. My blood pounded harder through my heart.
A little noise, like
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