For the time being all the small bathroom appliances we own are in Tish’s custody. She has the blow dryer, the curling iron, any of the women’s things that we’ve been beginning to share since she came of an age to want to use them. What I have is a brush, a comb, a cake of eyeshadow that’s half brown, half tan, and a tube of mascara. It occurs to me that I am now able to afford my own set of hair implements, and that I don’t need to use generic brand products, although some of them DO work as well as anything I could be spending top dollar for.
I make coffee the way I like it, strong, and sit at the kitchen table with a purloined pad from a motel and a pencil. I went to sleep thinking of things we need, and woke up with the beginnings of a list in my head that I mentally completed in the shower. While the coffee is brewing I scribble it down.
Even though we have our own little kitchen in this residence, it’s a very small one. I like that. We don’t need a lot. I did notice, though, that there is a bar area, for all the entertaining I won’t be doing, and it has its own mini-fridge which I intend to stock with drinks, freeing up space for much needed staples in the kitchen. By the time I have it all sorted out, the coffee is done and I’m ready for my first cup. While I’m pouring it out a buzzer blasts through the quiet, making me spill some of my precious brew on the counter.
The intercom. It’s connected to the house phone system. I can use the phone as a phone, or use it to contact the house, or for the house to contact me. It’s seven-fifteen and my boss is up and at it and I’m dawdling over a shopping list. I feel like I’ve failed the first test. I should have been making coffee, of course, and I should have been making it in his kitchen. For him.
“Yes, Mr. McLean?” I pitch my voice so I sound more awake than I feel.
“Hello?”
“It’s Siobhan, Mr. McLean, I’ll be to the house in ten minutes.”
“Who is this?” Then there’s more buzzing.
I have to hold back the laugh that threatens to come out.
“It’s Siobhan, here at the pool house. You’re on the intercom, Mr. McLean.”
“Damn, did I wake you?”
“No, sir. I’ll be up to...”
“I didn’t even know this thing was on here.” The phone in my hand buzzes quickly a few more times. “Shit, I lost the call.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I want to laugh so hard I’m biting the inside of my cheek.
“S’okay, I’ll call him back. I’m supposed to be up anyway. Sorry to wake you.”
“I...” He hangs up. I’m tempted to buzz him back, then decide not to. He’s obviously not in dire need of anything from me at the moment, but I dress quickly and pour coffee into two mugs instead of one. I slip the small carton of milk I bought into a pocket of my dress and hope that he has his own sugar if he wants it, I drink my coffee black with only a hint of milk.
“Who was that?” Tish asks, coming into the kitchen while putting some final touches to her hair. She looks rested and beautiful, the way she looks every day. She’s wearing one of her ‘new’ outfits and is carrying a brand new tote bag that we picked up yesterday during our explorations.
“Mr. McLean. I think he was having a problem with the intercom. I have to go up to the house. Do you have your lunch money? Do you know where to get the bus, or do you think I should drive you today?”
“I think you’re supposed to take me,” Tish reminds. She’s right, I’m supposed to accompany her today. Damn.
“Okay, well, then, we have time, so have some toast and meet me by the car in about forty-five minutes.” With that I’m out the double thick French doors and on the patio. It’s quiet out here. There is no sound of dogs, there is no sound of neighbors. I get the feeling that I’m not in the land of early risers or nine-to-five workers, other than those that are like me, working for someone else who lives here.
The house is warm when I enter it. The back door had been left unlocked, and the alarm system was not engaged. I assumed that Mr. McLean HAD let the dogs out, but they came bounding through the house to investigate the noise I was making, so I let them out myself.
There are no signs of life. I realize that the house is so huge I wouldn’t be able to hear anyone if they were on the upper levels or the outer wings anyway. I’m not sure I would be able to hear a brass band. I put the cup of coffee I brought for Mr. McLean into the microwave so I can give it a jolt of heat. Then I begin to make a little exploratory effort.
The first place I look is inside the refrigerator. It’s empty. There are some old containers of take-out food, and one peek into them and I know that they’ve gone bad. I want to throw them out, but I can’t find a garbage pail anywhere. Under the sink seems like a good place to look, but all that’s under there are some cleansers and sponges. I go from one cabinet to the next until I find what I’m looking for. It’s not a garbage can, it’s a trash compactor. I remind myself to think up scale, not run of the mill.
I don’t feel I need to ask about the old food, I just dump it out into the compactor. Beside it is another unit for recyclable trash. There’s nothing to recycle, though, the bottled water is still in its bottles. There’s nothing else in there but a box of baking soda. I give Mr. McLean a mental thumbs up for keeping his fridge smelling fresh, even if the rest of the house is still smelling of dog.
Continuing to poke through things I find where the dishes and stemware are stored, where there are a few paper goods, and some extra light bulbs. Beyond this it doesn’t look like anyone’s taken up residence in the house. There are nice, shiny appliances scattered over the counters: blender, toaster, toaster oven, can opener, industrial sized mixer, a coffee maker, and a cappuccino maker. They all look as if they’ve come out of their boxes to gather dust that the cleaning people must wipe away on their scheduled days. There’s an abandon feel to everything here.
Someone has tacked a notepad to a magnet on the refrigerator. At some point someone must have cared enough to purchase food and prepare it. There are even pots and pans dangling over the large work island. The stove is a Vulcan, top of the line, and it looks as if it’s never been turned on.
I help myself to the pad and pen and begin to make a list of bottom line necessities.
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My morning starts out with a missed phone call. It was Rene waking me up to play golf and I hit a button and the next thing I know I’m talking to someone calling me Mr. McLean. For a minute I think I’m in a hotel. I would swear on it, because it’s in hotels that people call me Mr. McLean. Then I recognize the name. It still takes me a while to understand what she’s telling me: I’ve hit the intercom. I didn’t even know I HAD an intercom, I never used it.
So I start out the day feeling like a jackass for waking the lady at some ungodly hour. I mean, just because Rene and I are gonna catch an early tee time doesn’t mean that SHE has to be up.
When I finally get Rene back on the line, I find out that our tee off isn’t until eleven, so we won’t be doing more than the back nine because of the meeting in the afternoon. And he just laughed at me for bitching him out for calling me so damn early to let me know that I didn’t have to be up so damn early.
I would roll over and go back to bed, but I hear the dogs, and I hear someone in the house. My first thought, that leaves me with a little zing of, I don’t know, hope, is that Sarah is there. But I know that she’s not, and that she wouldn’t be here this early either. I get out of bed and pull on the pair of pant that I dropped on the floor last night, grope for a cigarette and light it, and wait for the dogs.
They don’t come. Usually they’re all over me wanting to go out or wanting to show me what they’ve ‘done’ in the house. This morning they avoid me and I think that what they’ve ‘done’ must be pretty bad, but then I hear them outside. I get up and look out the big window that looks over the lawn and I see the three of them tumbling over each other and heading for the bushes. From up here it’s real clear that there’s a bunch of bushes they favor, because they look like they’re dying.
I pull on the shirt I tossed on the floor last night and go downstairs.
Lots of stairs.
I notice that the dogs have peed on the paper, which, so far, is the highlight of my day.
She’s standing at the counter in the kitchen writing something. Her hair, thick and curly and reddish, is wet where she doesn’t have it pulled back with a band of scarf. She’s wearing the dress I first saw her in, a blue-green print that not everyone could wear, but she wears it well.
“Morin’,” I say, and she gives a little start before looking up from what she’s doing.
“Good morning,” she replies. She has a deep voice. It’s neutral and neutral is a good thing in the morning. Without another word she turns and punches a number on the microwave. There’s a cup inside of it. “I’ll have some coffee for you in a minute,” she tells me. She means a minute, I watch the seconds tick down on the timer. While the coffee is warming she gets out a bag of sugar I didn’t even know I had and a spoon, that I DID know I had, and puts them on the kitchen table. “I don’t know how you like your coffee,” she says, getting a carton of milk from the fridge. “This is some milk, but if you want cream, I’ll get you some today.”
“Milk’s fine,” I tell her.
She’s moving now, getting an ashtray, a napkin, and placing them on the table, too. The timer goes off, she takes out the mug, and I can smell the coffee. It smells strong. It smells great. She puts the mug on the napkin and pulls out the chair with a tiny flourish.
“Breakfast is served,” she says with a small smile.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
