intuiting that tomorrow would not be the sixth day in her fifteen-day program to reduce her thighs and firm her buttocks. That it would be much, much more.
8
On the fourth ring, Janice Barren stopped propping up the sagging volume of her oversprayed hair, turning her attention from the hall mirror to the louvered doors leading to the kitchen.
“Imelda,” she called pleasantly, maintaining that edge of modulation necessary to prove to the new maid she was demanding but not unkind.
The phone rang again.
“Imelda!” She raised her voice slightly, wondering if this was going to be a problem. The thought of indoctrinating yet another Third World stranger into the intimate mysteries of the elegant Barren household brought a sad droop to her recently uplifted cheeks. It was too awful to consider.
She sighed, picking up the phone herself.
“Hello…. Yes, this is Mrs. Barren speaking.” She paused, listening, her eyes widening. “Who is this?” she demanded.
“Missus Barren?” the maid called timidly.
Janice looked up from the phone into the girl’s eager, guilty eyes. She covered the mouthpiece. “It’s all right, Imelda. I’ve got it this time. Didn’t I explain to you? Wasn’t I clear?” she pleaded. “Please, Imelda. Try to answer the phone no later than the second or third ring…“What!” she gasped into the phone. “What’s that? Mr. Barren? Kenneth? WHAT…DID…YOU…SAY?” She slammed her palm over the mouthpiece. “That will be all, Imelda! JUST…GO!”
The little, dark-haired woman lowered her gaze so that her new employer wouldn’t see the tiny flash of hatred that lit up her meek, docile eyes. Swiftly, she dashed through the doors.
Janice stood there motionless, listening, a cold chill drenching her hot face, draining the color. She hung up, sitting down in the nearest chair and pressing her sweating palms hard against her knees to steady them. When she felt the shivers subside, she picked up the receiver to call Kenny. She stared at it in her hand, hesitating. Then slowly, and with infinite resignation, she replaced it.
Bastard, she thought.
She went back to the mirror and dabbed makeup over the tear streaks. She was almost out the door when the phone rang again. Let it, she thought, wondering what she dreaded more: some unknown female’s disgusting revelations or her husband’s slick, soothing lies.
“It’s for you, Missus.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone, Imelda.”
“But…you said…when it ring, pick up…”
Gauging the height of the linguistic and cultural barriers she would need to vault to explain herself, Janice reluctantly took the phone, smiling with guilty haste as a flash of the previous housekeeper’s unhappy face flitted across her memory. “Thank you, dear. You did that very well.”
Ignoring the smile, the maid left.
To her surprise, it was Suzanne.
“Is everything all right?” she asked a bit apprehensively. Since the Renaldo fiasco, Suzanne had called her only twice: once to demand a list of her friends to solicit for a rape-crisis center fund-raiser, and another time to borrow rent money. “Lunch, today? Of course, darling. I’d be…it’s been so…I’ve just got a nail appointment. I’m actually on my way now. Meet me there and I’ll take you to lunch after? Suzy, I’m so happy you finally—” She didn’t finish the thought, realizing Suzanne had already hung up.
Even from two flights away, it smelled like a toxic-waste dump, Suzanne thought, cringing as she climbed the steps toward the Art Deco doors of Nail Art Inc.
Her mother was already seated, her hands languidly poised above a basin of something looking vaguely like poisonous nuclear glop.
Suzanne watched her mother’s dark head nod in deep concentration to whatever the woman next to her was saying. “She’s such a good daughter,” Suzanne heard. “…not only helped her mother find the apartment in Palm Beach, but hired a decorator to do it for her. All the
8
On the fourth ring, Janice Barren stopped propping up the sagging volume of her oversprayed hair, turning her attention from the hall mirror to the louvered doors leading to the kitchen.
“Imelda,” she called pleasantly, maintaining that edge of modulation necessary to prove to the new maid she was demanding but not unkind.
The phone rang again.
“Imelda!” She raised her voice slightly, wondering if this was going to be a problem. The thought of indoctrinating yet another Third World stranger into the intimate mysteries of the elegant Barren household brought a sad droop to her recently uplifted cheeks. It was too awful to consider.
She sighed, picking up the phone herself.
“Hello…. Yes, this is Mrs. Barren speaking.” She paused, listening, her eyes widening. “Who is this?” she demanded.
“Missus Barren?” the maid called timidly.
Janice looked up from the phone into the girl’s eager, guilty eyes. She covered the mouthpiece. “It’s all right, Imelda. I’ve got it this time. Didn’t I explain to you? Wasn’t I clear?” she pleaded. “Please, Imelda. Try to answer the phone no later than the second or third ring…“What!” she gasped into the phone. “What’s that? Mr. Barren? Kenneth? WHAT…DID…YOU…SAY?” She slammed her palm over the mouthpiece. “That will be all, Imelda! JUST…GO!”
The little, dark-haired woman lowered her gaze so that her new employer wouldn’t see the tiny flash of hatred that lit up her meek, docile eyes. Swiftly, she dashed through the doors.
Janice stood there motionless, listening, a cold chill drenching her hot face, draining the color. She hung up, sitting down in the nearest chair and pressing her sweating palms hard against her knees to steady them. When she felt the shivers subside, she picked up the receiver to call Kenny. She stared at it in her hand, hesitating. Then slowly, and with infinite resignation, she replaced it.
Bastard, she thought.
She went back to the mirror and dabbed makeup over the tear streaks. She was almost out the door when the phone rang again. Let it, she thought, wondering what she dreaded more: some unknown female’s disgusting revelations or her husband’s slick, soothing lies.
“It’s for you, Missus.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone, Imelda.”
“But…you said…when it ring, pick up…”
Gauging the height of the linguistic and cultural barriers she would need to vault to explain herself, Janice reluctantly took the phone, smiling with guilty haste as a flash of the previous housekeeper’s unhappy face flitted across her memory. “Thank you, dear. You did that very well.”
Ignoring the smile, the maid left.
To her surprise, it was Suzanne.
“Is everything all right?” she asked a bit apprehensively. Since the Renaldo fiasco, Suzanne had called her only twice: once to demand a list of her friends to solicit for a rape-crisis center fund-raiser, and another time to borrow rent money. “Lunch, today? Of course, darling. I’d be…it’s been so…I’ve just got a nail appointment. I’m actually on my way now. Meet me there and I’ll take you to lunch after? Suzy, I’m so happy you finally—” She didn’t finish the thought, realizing Suzanne had already hung up.
Even from two flights away, it smelled like a toxic-waste dump, Suzanne thought, cringing as she climbed the steps toward the Art Deco doors of Nail Art Inc.
Her mother was already seated, her hands languidly poised above a basin of something looking vaguely like poisonous nuclear glop.
Suzanne watched her mother’s dark head nod in deep concentration to whatever the woman next to her was saying. “She’s such a good daughter,” Suzanne heard. “…not only helped her mother find the apartment in Palm Beach, but hired a decorator to do it for her. All the
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