The Housemaid(4)

Once we get back down to the first floor, the tension leaves my body. Mrs. Winchester is nice and normal enough—for a lady this rich—and as she chatters about the house and her daughter and the job, I’m only vaguely listening. All I know is this will be a lovely place to work. I would give my right arm to get this job.

“Do you have any questions, Millie?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “No, Mrs. Winchester.”

She clucks her tongue. “Please, call me Nina. If you’re working here, I would feel so silly with you calling me Mrs. Winchester.” She laughs. “Like I’m some sort of rich old lady.”

“Thank you… Nina,” I say.

Her face glows, although that could be the seaweed or cucumber peel or whatever rich people apply to their faces. Nina Winchester is the sort of woman who has regular spa treatments. “I have a good feeling about this, Millie. I really do.”

It’s hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm. It’s hard not to feel that glimmer of hope as she squeezes my rough palm in her baby smooth one. I want to believe that in the next few days, I’ll get a call from Nina Winchester, offering me the opportunity to come work at her house and finally vacate Casa Nissan. I want to believe that so badly.

But whatever else I can say about Nina, she’s no dummy. She’s not going to hire a woman to work and live in her home and take care of her child without doing a simple background check. And once she does…

I swallow a lump in my throat.

Nina Winchester bids a warm goodbye to me at the front door. “Thank you so much for coming by, Millie.” She reaches out to clasp my hand in hers one more time. “I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

I won’t. This will be the last time I set foot in that magnificent house. I should never have come here in the first place. I should have tried for a job I had a chance of getting instead of wasting both of our time here. Maybe something in the fast-food industry.

The landscaper who I saw from the window in the attic is back on the front lawn. He’s still got those giant clippers and he’s shaping one of the hedges right in front of the house. He’s a big guy, wearing a T-shirt that shows off impressive muscles and just barely hides the tattoos on his upper arms. He adjusts his baseball cap and his dark, dark eyes lift briefly from the clippers to meet mine across the lawn.

I raise my hand in greeting. “Hi,” I say.

The man stares at me. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say “quit trampling my posies.” He just stares at me.

“Nice to meet you too,” I mutter under my breath.

I exit through the electronic metal gate that encircles the property and trudge back to my car/home. I look back one last time at the landscaper in the yard, and he is still watching me. There’s something in his expression that sends a chill down my spine. And then he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Almost like he’s trying to warn me.

But he doesn’t say a word.





TWO





When you live in your car, you have to keep things simple.

You’re not going to be hosting any major gatherings, for one thing. No wine and cheese parties, no poker nights. That’s fine, because I don’t have anyone I want to see. The bigger problem is where to take a shower. Three days after I was evicted from my studio, which was three weeks after I got fired from my job, I discovered a rest stop that had showers. I almost cried with joy when I saw it. Yes, the showers have very little privacy and smell faintly of human waste, but at that point, I was desperate to be clean.

Now I’m enjoying my lunch in the back seat of the car. I do have a hot plate that I can plug into the cigarette lighter for special occasions, but mostly I eat sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches. I’ve got a cooler where I store the cold cuts and cheese, and I’ve got a loaf of white bread—ninety-nine cents at the supermarket. And then snacks, of course. Bags of chips. Crackers with peanut butter. Twinkies. The unhealthy options are endless.

Today I’m eating ham and American cheese, with a dollop of mayonnaise. With every bite I take, I try not to think about how sick I am of sandwiches.

After I’ve forced down half my sandwich, my phone rings in my pocket. I have one of those prepaid flip phones that people only use if they’re going to commit a crime or else they’ve traveled back fifteen years in the past. But I need a phone and this is all I can afford.

“Wilhelmina Calloway?” a woman’s clipped voice says on the other line.

I wince at the use of my full name. Wilhelmina was my father’s mother, who is long gone. I don’t know what sort of psychopaths would name their child Wilhelmina, but I don’t speak to my parents anymore (and likewise, they don’t speak to me), so it’s a little late to ask. Anyway, I’ve always just been Millie, and I try to correct people as quickly as I can. But I get the feeling that whoever is calling me isn’t somebody I’m going to be on a first-name basis with anytime soon. “Yes…?”

“Ms. Calloway,” the woman says. “This is Donna Stanton from Munch Burgers.”

Oh right. Munch Burgers—the greasy fast-food joint that granted me an interview a few days ago. I would be flipping burgers or else manning the cash register. But if I worked hard, there was some opportunity for advancement. And better yet, an opportunity to have enough money to move out of my car.