Chapter 4
FOUR
Trying to take on as many of Mr. Albo, Ms. Baghdadi, and Mrs. Milla’s upkeep responsibilities, my nights are long and full of the kind of labor that builds a deep soreness in my muscles. The task Janice set last night was particularly bad, and not only because she was there to supervise it herself.
Rust has spread across the pipes of the sink in the kitchenette of the downstairs common room. Having learned from experience, I don’t bother pointing out to her that it will come back if she doesn’t fix the water leak, knowing full well my suggestion will be taken as insolence.
So, I scrub in silence. Ineffectually since I’m not allowed abrasive material like steel wool pads to combat the rust because Janice doesn’t want the pipes scratched.
She has no such qualms about my hands.
“What is this, Janice? It burns through my rubber gloves.”
“Keep going, Ms. Singh.”
I wet a sponge with more liquid, trying to make sense of the faded label on the jug of cleaner. Knowing my building manager, this is some sort of banned and bottled factory effluent used to make batteries or maybe rat poison. Or this is her own concoction, a mix she sniffs to eviscerate nose hairs.
Bending over, I work the crusted drainpipe harder. Not before long, my skin itches again, getting worse and worse the longer I go at it.
“This—I can’t—” Peeling off my gloves reveals red and raw skin. “Look, it’s really starting to hurt me!”
“Is it?” says Janice, peering at it with her head slightly to one side, still smiling.
“Oh, yes, such soft skin like my daughter has. Did you know I have a daughter? You seem surprised by that information. Well, it’s true.
I have a daughter who ran away from me, and now she is out there somewhere being punished for her attention-seeking ways.
And I’m telling you this, Ms. Singh, because I truly believe if I was more strict, she would have never left me.
She would have recognized that hard work and a bit of suffering are the backbone of a good life. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I do not agree. I think Janice is a dingbat, and that this daughter of hers freed herself like a phoenix rising from soiled ashes, but none of that is anything I am going to voice. Instead, I try to scrape off as much rust as I can at super-speed. Only after a coughing fit starts do I stop.
“I shouldn’t be breathing this in,” I sputter, slumping over to steady myself against a wall.
“There’s not much left,” says Janice.
“But—”
“Or if you don’t feel up for it, dear, I can get Mr. Albo to come down and finish the job?” She looks at her nails, and then buffs them on her stiff fuchsia track jacket.
That shuts me up.
The height of immoral Janice Dorian does. She would do that. Without any ounce of guilt, she would bring Mr. Albo down to do this horrible task with me, not caring about his health. The height of immoral Janice Dorian is.
Thankfully the rest goes by fast, and the burn finally abates after I wrap my hands in a barrier of scrunched up paper towels. That night I lather my hands, wrists and arms with ointment.
It barely helps.