Shakespeare’s Landlord

Chapter Two

The next day was a Tuesday. On Tuesday mornings, I take care of Mrs. Hofstettler. Marie Hofstettler’s son Chuck lives in Memphis. He worries about his mother, but he doesn’t worry enough to make the drive over to Shakespeare to see her. So he pays me handsomely to spend time with his mother twice a week.

I always do a little cleaning, channel Mrs. Hofstettler’s clothes through the washer and dryer, and occasionally take her to a friend’s house or Kmart or Kroger’s, if Mrs. Hofstettler is having what she calls a “limber” day.

I walked over from my house to the apartment building, letting myself in the squeaking front door and rapping lightly on the first door to my left to let Mrs. Hofstettler know I was coming in. I had a key. Mrs. Hofstettler was already up, a good sign; on her bad, stiff days, she is still in bed when I get there.

“I didn’t sleep at all last night!” she said by way of greeting. Marie Hofstettler, now eighty-five, is as wrinkled as a dried apricot. Her hair is white and silky and thin, and she wears it pulled back in an untidy bun. (I know what pain it costs the old lady to raise her arms to form the bun. In a stupid moment, I had suggested Mrs. Hofstettler have her hair cut short, and I had been treated to a huffy hour-long silence.) This morning, Mrs. Hofstettler’s teeth were already in and she had managed to pull on a red-and-blue-striped housedress, so the excitement had done her good.

“I saw there was crime-scene tape across the path going into the park,” I commented in as neutral a voice as I could manage. No true Shakespearean would call Estes Arboretum anything but “the park.” I’m finally getting the hang of being a true Shakespearean after four years.

“Didn’t you hear all the commotion, girl?”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” I answered truthfully. “I slept real heavy last night.” I went down the hall to Mrs. Hofstettler’s bedroom to fetch the wash from the hamper.

“Then you are an amazing sleeper,” Mrs. Hofstettler called after me. “Honey, there were police cars up and down the street, and people coming and going, and an ambulance, too.”

“And I don’t know anything about it to tell you,” I said, trying to sound regretful. I’m not normally chatty with clients, but I admire Marie Hofstettler; she doesn’t whine and she isn’t clingy.

“Let’s turn on the radio,” Mrs. Hofstettler said eagerly. “Maybe we can find out what happened. If that don’t work, Pm calling Deedra at the courthouse. She always knows what’s going on.”

I started the washing machine. All eight apartments, of course, have the same layout, with the east apartments mirroring the west. There are four units upstairs and four downstairs. The building’s front door and back door are locked at eleven, and residents aren’t supposed to give anyone a key. Marie’s apartment is a ground-floor front apartment on the north side. She’s had it since the building was erected ten years ago; Marie and Pardon Albee are the only original tenants. In Marie’s apartment, as in all of them, the common hallway door opens directly into a living room, with an area to the rear used for dining. Across from this dining area is the kitchen, of course, which is well lined with cabinets and counters for an apartment kitchen. The hall starts where the kitchen and dining area end, and to your right (in Marie’s apartment) is the closet containing the washer and dryer and shelves used for linens and cleaners and odds and ends. Almost opposite this closet is the door to the master bedroom, which is a nice size and has a very large closet. On the same wall as the wash closet is the door to the much smaller guest bedroom, and at the end of the hall is the bathroom, with a large frosted-glass window, which is supposed to be the second line of escape in case of fire.

I’ve always appreciated the fact that the front doors are not centered, so that when a tenant answers his or her front door, the caller can’t see down the hall directly into the bathroom.

The builder and resident landlord, Pardon Albee, had had the gall to call these the Shakespeare Garden Apartments because the front ones overlook the arboretum. The back ones at the ground floor overlook only the paved area that lies between the apartment and the garage, divided into eight stalls not quite wide enough for two cars each. The second floor apartments at the back have a scenic view of the train tracks, and beyond them the back lot of a hardware and lumber-supply store.

After I’d turned on the radio for Mrs. Hofstettler, I began dusting the larger bedroom. Mrs. Hofstettler turned up the radio loud so I could listen along, after a conscientious discussion about whom it might bother; no one, the old woman decided, since T. L. and Alvah York next door should be out for their morning walk, and Norvel Whitbread, whose apartment was above, was already at work, or drunk, or both.

The area station, which covered most of Hartsfield and Creek counties, plays so-called classic rock. It is a preprogrammed station. The song that came on first was one I’d liked long ago, before the time when my life’s agenda had gotten so… simplified. I smiled as I lifted the old china figurines on the dressing table and dusted them very carefully. The song ended, I glanced at my watch, and right on cue the local announcer began to speak, her southern Arkansas accent so broad that even after four years in Shakespeare, I had to listen quite carefully.

“In local news” (“In lawcol nyus”), twanged the conscientiously serious voice, “in Hartsfield County, Shakespeare real estate developer Pardon Albee was found dead in Estes Arboretum at approximately two-thirty a.m. by Police Chief Claude Friedrich, who was acting on an anonymous phone tip. The cause of death is not known at this time, but police suspect foul play. Albee was a lifelong resident of Shakespeare and a member of the Shakespeare Combined Church. In other news, a Creek County judge sentenced Harley Don Murrell to twenty years for the abduction and rape of a local-”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Hofstettler exclaimed in real distress.

I carefully put down the shepherdess I’d been dusting and hurried into the living room. “Lily, this is horrible! Oh, Lily, do you suppose he was killed and robbed right here? And who will we pay rent to now that Pardon Albee’s dead? Who’ll own the building?”

I automatically handed Mrs. Hofstettler a Kleenex, thinking it was very like her to come right to the point. Who indeed owned the building now? When I’d recognized Pardon Albee’s ugly green-and-orange plaid shirt last night, that hadn’t been what I’d thought of.

The answer would not affect me directly, for I’d bought my house from Pardon, as had my neighbor. And Pardon had sold the lots at the north end of Track and around the corner on Jamaica Street to the Shakespeare Combined Church, a coalition of splinter churches that had thrived most unexpectedly. As far as I knew, the only property that Pardon still owned outright was Shakespeare Garden Apartments, and he’d enjoyed owning it to the hilt. In fact, he’d seen himself as the pivotal character in some kind of television drama-the kindly landlord who helps all his tenants solve their problems and knows all their most intimate secrets.

He’d worked hard on making the last part come true, anyway.

“I’ve got to call-Lily, I’m so glad you’re here today!”

Mrs. Hofstettler was more upset than I’d ever seen her, and I’d heard her fume for two weeks over the altar boy at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church lighting the wrong candle during Advent.

“Who did you want to call?” I asked, putting down the dust cloth.

“The police. Pardon was here yesterday. It was the first of the month, you know. I get a check from Chuck toward the end of the month, and I deposit it, and every first, here comes Mr. Albee, regular as clockwork. I always have my check made out and sitting on the table for him, and he always… Oh, I think I should tell the police he was here!”

“I’ll call, then.” I hoped Mrs. Hofstettler could ease her agitation with a phone call. To my surprise and dismay, the dispatcher at the Shakespeare Police Department said someone would be right by to listen to Mrs. Hofstettler’s story.

“You’d better make some coffee, Lily, please,” the old lady said. “Maybe the policeman will want some. Oh, what could have happened to Pardon? I can’t believe it. Just yesterday, he was standing right there. And now he’s dead, and him a good twenty-five years younger than me! And Lily, could you pick up that tissue there, and straighten that pillow on the sofa? Oh, durn these stiff old legs! You just don’t know, Lily, how frustrating being old can be.”

There was no safe response to that, so I straightened the room very quickly. The coffee was perking, everything in the apartment was dusted, and I’d given the bathroom a quick once-over by the time the doorbell rang. I was pulling the clothes from the dryer, but I’d become infected by Marie’s house-pride, so I hastily carried the clean wash back to deposit in the guest bedroom and shut the louver doors that concealed the washer and dryer on my way back to answer the bell.

I had expected some underling. With a pang of dismay, I recognized the chief of police, the man I’d called in the middle of the night, Claude Friedrich.

I stood aside and waved him in, cursing my conscience-stricken call, afraid anything I said would cause him to recognize my voice.

It was the first time I’d seen Claude Friedrich close up, though of course I had glimpsed him driving in and out of the apartment house driveway, and occasionally passed him in the hall when I was in the building on a cleaning job.

Claude Friedrich was in his late forties, a very tall man with a deep tan, light brown hair and mustache streaked with gray, and light gray eyes that shone in the weathered face. He had few wrinkles, but the ones he had were so deep, they might have been put in with a chisel. He had a broad face and a square jaw, broad shoulders and hands, a flat stomach. His gun looked very natural on his hip. The dark blue uniform made my mouth feel dry, made something inside me twitch with anxiety, and I reacted with anger.

Macho man, I thought. As if he could hear me, Friedrich suddenly turned to catch me with my brows raised, one side of my mouth pulled up sardonically. We locked stares for a tense moment.

“Mrs. Hofstettler,” he said politely, transferring his gaze to my employer, who was twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

“Thank you for coming-maybe you didn’t even need to,” Mrs. Hofstettler said in one breath. “I would hate to bother you. Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the flowered sofa at right angles to the television and to her own favorite recliner.

“Thank you, ma’am, and coming here is no trouble at all,” Friedrich said comfortingly. He knew how to be soothing, no doubt about it. He sat down gratefully, as if he’d been standing for a long time. I moved into the kitchen, which has a hatch cut in the wall behind the counter, and opened it to stick out the coffeepot behind our guest’s back. Mrs. Hofstettler, thus reminded, went into her hostess mode, helping her regain her calm.

“I’m not being polite,” Mrs. Hofstettler accused herself, turning her mild, faded blue eyes on her guest. “Please, have some coffee. Do you take cream and sugar?”

“Thanks,” Friedrich said. “I’d love some coffee. Black, please.”

“Lily, would you mind bringing Chief Friedrich some black coffee? I don’t believe I want any. But you get yourself a cup and come join us. I believe, young man, that I knew your father…” And Mrs. Hofstettler was off on the inevitable establishing of connections that made southern introductions so cozy and drawn-out.

Knowing it would please Mrs. Hofstettler, I fixed a tray with napkins, a plate of cookies (a secret indulgence of Marie’s-she likes Keebler Elves, chocolate with chocolate filling), and two generous cups of coffee. While I was assembling the tray, I was listening to Friedrich telling Marie about his years as a police officer in Little Rock; his decision to return to Shakespeare when, in quick succession, his father died, he himself divorced his wife, and the position of chief of police became vacant; and his pleasure at rediscovering the slower pace of life in little Shakespeare.

This guy was good.

As I aligned the napkins in overlapping triangles on the brightly painted tole tray, I admitted to myself that I was worried. After all, how long could I go without speaking before it looked just plain peculiar? On the other hand, he’d been asleep when I’d made the call. And I’d said so little, maybe he wouldn’t recognize my voice?

I lifted the tray easily and carried it out to the living room. I handed Friedrich his cup. Now that I was close to him again, I was even more aware of how big he was.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve actually met you…” Friedrich said delicately as I perched on the hard armchair opposite him.

“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me!” Mrs. Hofstettler said ruefully, shaking her head. “This awful news has just taken away all my manners. Chief Friedrich, this is Miss Lily Bard. She lives in the house next to our apartment building, and Lily has become the mainstay of Shakespeare since she moved here.”

Trust Mrs. Hofstettler not to ignore a matchmaking opportunity; I should have anticipated this.

“I’ve seen you around, of course,” the big man said, with the courtly implication that no man could ignore me.

“I clean Deedra Dean’s apartment,” I said briefly.

“Did you work in this building yesterday?”

“Yes.”

He waited for me to continue. I didn’t.

“Then we need to talk later, when you’re not working,” he said gently, as if he was talking to a shaky centenarian, or a mental deficient.

I nodded curtly. “I have a break between four and five-thirty.”

“I’ll come to your house then,” he said, and without giving me any time to agree or disagree, he focused his light gray eyes on his hostess.

“Now, Miss Marie, you tell me about seeing Mr. Albee yesterday.”

“Well,” Mrs. Hofstettler said slowly, gathering herself together with a kind of morbid pleasure, “Pardon always comes about nine in the morning on the first day of the month… to collect the rent. I know he likes the other tenants to stop by his apartment, but he comes to me because I have limber days and I have stiff days, and I never know till I open my eyes in the morning which it’s going to be.” She shook her head at the vagaries of illness and old age, and Friedrich responded with a sympathetic rumble.

“So he rang the doorbell, and I let him in,” Mrs. Hofstettler said, concentrating hard on her narrative. “He was wearing an orange-and-green plaid shirt and dark green polyester pants… kind of bad colors for anyone, but for a fair man, really not… well, that’s neither here nor there. But especially if you’re kind of heavyset… well… So he commented on the weather, and I answered-you know, the usual kind of thing people say to old ladies they don’t know very well!”

Claude Friedrich smiled at this particular sharp old lady, took a sip of his coffee, then raised his cup to me in silent appreciation.

“Did he say anything about his plans for the day?” the police chief rumbled. His voice was like the sound of far-off thunder; it made you feel quite safe right where you were.

I was really going to have to be careful. I stared down into my coffee cup. I was so angry that I’d embroiled myself in the death of Pardon Albee, I pictured myself hurling the coffee cup against Mrs. Hofstettler’s dead-white wall. Of course, I wouldn’t; Marie was not to blame for my predicament. I sighed silently, then looked up to meet Claude Friedrich’s intent gaze. Damn.

“He just said he had to go back to his place to wait for everyone to come by with the rent. Since you’ve been living here, Mr. Friedrich, you know how Pardon was about getting the rent right on the dot. He did say something about interesting things on the news…”

“Local news? National news?” Friedrich queried gently. He wasn’t breaking into Mrs. Hofstettler’s stream of thought, I observed. He was more directing it with a gentle insinuation every now and then. It was skillful. And I noticed that somehow he’d managed to make two cookies vanish, without my ever seeing him chew.

“He didn’t say.” Marie Hofstettler shook her head regretfully. “He was kind of cheerful about it, though. You know, Pardon was-I don’t know how to say it, now that he’s gone-he liked to know things,” she finished delicately, with a tiny contraction of her brows and a little bob of her head.

He had called it “taking a neighborly interest.”

That wasn’t what I had called it.

“Now, yesterday, did you see any of your neighbors here?” Friedrich asked Mrs. Hofstettler.

She thought, her lips pursed.

“I thought once I heard Alvah and T. L. next door, but they weren’t due to come in until late last night, so I must have been mistaken. And I heard people knocking on Mrs. Albee’s door-to pay their rent, you know-several times during the morning and afternoon. But I’m almost always watching the TV or playing the radio, and I don’t hear quite as well as I used to.”

“When you thought you heard the Yorks, do you mean you heard their voices, enough to identify them, or do you mean that you just heard someone next door?”

Again, Mrs. Hofstettler thought carefully. “I believe I just heard movement next door.”

“It might have been me,” I said. “I bought some groceries for them and put them in the kitchen and was supposed to water the plant.”

“Well, I heard this sound about three in the afternoon. I’d just gotten up from my nap.”

“That was probably me.”

Friedrich made a note in a little hot-pink spiral-bound notebook that suddenly appeared in his hands.

I glanced at my watch. I had to leave in thirty minutes to get to my next cleaning job, and I had yet to put away Marie’s clean laundry.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, and took the tray back to the kitchen, feeling Friedrich’s bright gaze on my back. I quickly washed and dried the dishes, then dodged out of the kitchen and into the guest bedroom. Nothing I’d washed needed ironing, so I was able to get everything put away in a few minutes. I went down a mental checklist; I’d done everything for Marie I usually do on Tuesday mornings, and I’d be coming back again on Saturday. Marie was almost out of Glass Plus. In the kitchen, I left a note affixed to the refrigerator with an “I Heart Grandma” magnet. Marie gets money from Chuck to pay me, too; she’d write me a check on Saturday.

The police chief was gone when I emerged from the kitchen. I’d been waiting to hear the front door close behind him.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Hofstettler,” I said. Marie was staring into space, her hands quiet in her lap. She seemed startled that I was still there.

“Good-bye, Lily,” the old woman said wearily. “I’m so glad you came in today. This would have been hard to cope with on my own.”

“Maybe you should give your son a call today.”

“I hate to bother Chuck,” Marie protested.

“This is a very awful thing that’s happened.” I remembered just how awful it had been in the narrow glow of my flashlight, in the dark, in the trees, in the middle of the night. But with a mental exercise as familiar as my bicep curls, I blocked it out. It would surface at another time and place, but by then I would be alone.

Tuesdays are always busy for me. Today was rougher than usual because I hadn’t had enough sleep the night before and had endured great stress.

I ran in my house to grab some fruit to eat in the car on the way to my next job.

The garbage hadn’t been picked up yet; Tuesday is also garbage day for my part of town. My cart was out in front, the garbage cans sitting in it correctly. No one could know or suspect that the garbage within those cans was double-bagged, that one set contained the traces of human remains. I had lifted the cans quickly that morning to see if any vestige of Pardon Albee’s last ride was visible on the cart. To the naked eye, the metal looked quite clean.

As I went out the kitchen door to my carport, I could hear the rumble of the garbage truck coming. I couldn’t resist standing there, one foot in the car and one arm propped on the open door, watching the truck approach. A middle-aged black man wearing a blue jumpsuit with “City of Shakespeare” stitched on the back hoisted out the garbage cans, one after another, dumped the bags into the back of the truck, and returned the garbage cans to the cart.

I closed my eyes in relief as the garbage truck moved up the street to the apartments. The clumsy vehicle turned cautiously to navigate the staple-shaped driveway. But it didn’t idle long enough behind that building; I heard it moving again much sooner than it should have. I found myself wishing I could see through the privacy fence.

I was willing to bet that on the other side of it, policemen wearing rubber gloves were going through the apartment garbage cans.

It struck me as a sophisticated concept for the Shakespeare police force.

Though I had no way of finding out for sure, my guess was that the idea had originated with Chief Claude Friedrich.

I stood in the doorway of Bobo Winthrop’s room and eyed it grimly. Bobo is a husky seventeen-year-old, full of hormones in overdrive, as I’d discovered last summer. He was at school today, but his room was evidence that Bobo had been home at least to sleep and change clothes often during the past week. There was furniture in the room, somewhere, under all the mess, and I remembered it was good furniture, just as Bobo, I had a gut feeling, was a good kid- under all the mess.

In other words, he didn’t leave his room like this to spite me after I’d thumped him in the guts for putting his hand on my bottom. It’s just that Bobo has been accustomed all his life to having someone clean up after him.

Days like this, I feel like I’m following an elephant in a parade, armed only with a puppy’s pooper-scooper.

But since I am well paid by Beanie Winthrop to clean her house, I shouldn’t grumble, I reminded myself sternly. Faced with Bobo’s room, it was hard to remember why I’d chosen housecleaning as my means of support.

I was a National Merit Scholar, I reminded myself, dragging the plastic wash basket behind me as I worked my way across the room, tossing in soiled clothes as I went. I was top of my high school class. I finished college. My grade point average was 3.9.

On Tuesdays, that is my mantra.

Bobo had also ordered pizza one evening while his parents were out, I discovered. Probably-I evaluated by the layers of clothing over the cardboard box-about three days ago.

“Yoohoo!” came a light sweet voice from the kitchen, accompanied by the slam of the door leading into the garage. “Lily! I’m just stopping by on my way to my tennis lesson!”

“Good afternoon,” I called back, knowing my voice was (at best) grim. I much preferred seeing none of the Winthrops-not Beanie; her husband, Howell Junior; her oldest son, Bobo; or his younger siblings, Amber-Jean and Howell Three.

Beanie’s maiden name had been, incredibly, Bobo:

Beatrice (“Beanie”) Bobo. The Bobos were sixth-generation Arkansas aristocrats, and I suspected Beanie had a slave-owning gene still in her DNA.

“Here I am, Lily!” Beanie cried with exaggerated joy, as though I had been on tenterhooks waiting for her appearance. And Beanie always makes appearances; she never just walks into a room. She popped into the doorway now like she was appearing in an English comedy: Attractive Lady Beatrice, on her way to play tennis, stops to speak to the parlor maid.

Beanie is undeniably attractive. She’s in her middle forties, but her body doesn’t know it. Though her face is not actually pretty, Beanie is a past mistress at maximizing what she has. Her long, thick hair is colored a discreet chestnut brown, her contacts make her brown eyes darker, and her tan is always touched up in the winter with a sun-bed session or two a week.

“Listen, Lily, wasn’t that awful about Pardon?” Beanie was in her chatty mode. “I went to high school with his little sister! Of course, even then Pardon wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but still… to be killed like that! Isn’t it awful?”

“Yes.”

“Ah… well, Lily, if you find Bobo’s checkbook, please leave it on my desk. He hasn’t balanced it in six months, and I promised him I’d do it. Though when he thinks I’ll find the time, I don’t know!”

“All right.”

“Oh, and Lily-Bobo tells me you take karate. Can that be true?”

“Yes.” I knew I was being uncooperative. I was in a bloody mood today. And I hated the idea of the Winthrops discussing me. Most days, I find Beanie amusing but tolerable, but today she was irritating beyond measure. And Beanie felt the same way about me.

“Well, now, we always wanted Bobo to take tae kwan do, but there never was anyone here to teach it, except that man who went broke after six months. Who do you take from?”

“Marshall Sedaka.”

“Where does he teach it? At his gym?”

“He teaches goju karate to adults only on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights in the aerobics room at Body Time, seven-thirty to eight-thirty.” Those three nights were the highlights of my week.

Beanie decided I was experiencing some kind of warming trend, and she beamed at me.

“So you don’t think he’d teach Bobo? After all, Bobo’s seventeen, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s practically an adult-physically, at least,” Beanie added rather grimly.

“You can ask him,” I replied. There wasn’t a hope in hell of Marshall taking on a spoiled kid like Bobo, but it wasn’t my business to tell Beanie that.

“I just may do that,” Beanie said, making a little note in the tiny spiral-bound notebook she keeps in her purse all the time. (That’s something Beanie and Claude Friedrich have in common, I reflected.) And Beanie would call, too; one of the few things I find to admire about the woman is her devotion to her children. “Well,” Beanie said dismissively, looking up and turning slightly as if she was already half out the door, “I’m just going to freshen up for a minute and then I’m off to the club. Don’t forget about the checkbook, please!”

“I won’t.” I bent over to retrieve a sweatshirt Bobo had apparently used to clean his car’s windshield.

“You know,” Beanie said reflectively, “I think Pardon was that Marshall Sedaka’s partner.”

“What?” The sweatshirt slipped from my fingers; I groped around for it, hoping I hadn’t heard correctly.

“Yes,” said Beanie firmly. “That’s right. Howell Junior told me, and I thought it was funny at the time, because Pardon was the most unfit man I’ve ever seen. He wouldn’t walk down the street if he could ride. That gym’s been a great success. It must have made Pardon a lot of money. Wonder who he left it all to?”

I just kept tossing clothes into the plastic wash basket. When I finally looked up, Beanie had gone, and a moment later I heard splashing noises from Beanie’s big bathroom off the master bedroom.

After I heard the slam of the door to the garage, I said out loud, “I best start being nice to the mistress, else she sell me down the river.” I really shouldn’t be rude to her, I told myself seriously. Since they pay for me twice a week.

I got to Mrs. Hofstettler twice a week, too, but I charge her less-a lot less-because it takes me far less time and effort to straighten a two-bedroom apartment than it does the large Winthrop home, and also because the Winthrop children don’t do the slightest thing to help themselves, at least as far as I can tell. If only they would put their own dirty clothes in the hamper and pick up their own rooms, they could save their parents quite a bit of my salary.

Normally, I am able to maintain my indifference to the Winthrops’ personal habits, but this morning I was thrown off balance by what Beanie had said. Had Marshall and Pardon Albee really been in business together? Marshall had never mentioned a partner in the business he’d built up from scratch. Though Marshall and I knew each other’s bodies with an odd, impersonal intimacy from working out at the same time and taking karate together, I realized we really knew little about each other’s daily lives.

I wondered uneasily why I would worry about Marshall Sedaka, anyway. What difference would a partnership between Pardon and Marshall make? No matter how dim the light, I knew I’d have recognized Marshall if he’d been the person wheeling Pardon Albee’s body into the park.

That realization made me feel even more uneasy.

Bending my mind ferociously to the job at hand, I found Bobo’s errant checkbook and propped it on his mother’s dressing table, where she’d be sure to spot it. Thinking was slowing me down; I still had to do Howell Three’s room, and though he isn’t the pig Bobo is, he isn’t neat, either.

On my Tuesday at the Winthrops‘, I pick up, do the wash and put it away, and clean the bathrooms. On my Friday visit, I dust, vacuum, and mop. The Winthrops also have a cook, who takes care of the kitchen, or they’d have to hire me for a third time slot. Of course, on Fridays, too, I have to do a certain amount of picking up just to reach the surfaces of things I need to dust, and I get aggravated all over again at the people who are lazy enough to pay me to clean up their mess.

I soothed myself with a few deep breaths. Finally, I realized I was upset not because of the unthrifty Winthrops-their habits are to my benefit-or even because of Marshall Sedaka’s possible involvement with Pardon Albee, but because right after I’d finished here, I had to meet with Claude Friedrich.