The Housekeeper
There are all sorts of wealthy people, but the wealthiest, in her experience, prefer to forget that they’re being waited on at all, so she tries to keep her work out of sight.
Even her uniform is a sort of camouflage, dull and nondescript, designed to let her fade into the background, more forgettable than the furniture.
The decor here is meant to be seen, noticed, commented upon. She isn’t.
She begins in the kitchen, hiding any sign that it might have been used overnight, a clean slate for breakfast, a blank surface for another day.
The half bath next, just off the living room, scrubbing the toilet so that it looks like it’s never been used.
These people, she thinks, like to forget not only that they’re being waited on, but also that they have bodies that function just the same as poor bodies.
The bedroom and its en suite bathroom, she will clean last. She can’t begin until they’re no longer in use.
This morning, she waits for the sound of someone stirring, anticipating the sweaty sheets she’ll change, the damp towels she’ll lift off the floor, the dirty underwear she’ll wash and fold.
Perhaps there will be vomit on the toilet’s edges, remnants of an overindulgent night.
As she waits, she considers the many reasons a human body might throw up: viruses and parasites, alcohol and drugs and eating disorders.
There are so many ways for a body to reject nourishment, so many things that might poison it.
Finally, she tiptoes toward the primary bedroom, pokes her head inside. Instead of a sleeping body, she sees an empty bed.
If anyone had asked her—and of course, no one would—she could tell them what else she’s seen over the past days and weeks.
People with jobs like hers—doormen, housekeepers, gardeners—they know the wealthy’s secrets: when they leave and come home, what they eat and drink, when they fall asleep and wake up and with whom.
The power dynamic, she thinks, is terribly lopsided, and not entirely in the wealthy’s favor, though they’re the ones who hire and fire and compensate.
When blending into the background is part of your job description, people forget you’re there, but your eyes and ears function all the same.
Better, perhaps, senses heightened by your own silence.
The people she works for aren’t stupid. They made her sign an NDA, of course, leaving her contractually bound to keep their secrets as though she were nothing more than a human safety deposit box.
As though they can lock her up and pocket the key.
But she understands that nothing known by a stranger can be entirely secret, no matter the paperwork that stranger may have signed.
Even if she never tells what she’s seen and heard, it will live inside her.
She enters the cottage’s bedroom—that’s what they call it, a cottage—and starts the work of cleaning it.
She knows that eventually, someone will arrive and explain why the house is empty.
They won’t realize that she doesn’t need an explanation.
She may not be allowed to share their secrets, but that doesn’t stop her making sense of them.
She already understands that the person who slept in this bedroom will not be coming back.