Judging from the light coming through the patio doors, it seems to be late morning. I glance at the clock on Lars’s nightstand—yes, it’s after eleven. I am alone in the bed; the bedroom door is closed. I rise and make my way silently through the quiet house to the kitchen. Alma is there, sitting at the table. It must be coffee-break time; she’s reading the newspaper, a cup on the table in front of her.
Alma looks up when I enter. “How do you feel, Se?ora Andersson?” she asks, and I’m touched by the genuine concern in her voice.
“I’m . . . I feel all right.” I pour a cup of coffee from the percolator. “Where are Mr. Andersson and the children?”
“Se?or Andersson, he take a day off from work. Let you rest. He take Mitch and Missy to school. Say to stay out with Michael as long as he can. This way, the house is quiet.” She stands up. “I try to do quiet tasks this morning,” she says. “Not disturbing you. No?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t disturb me at all. I appreciate it.”
“Se?or Andersson, he say your night, it was difícil.”
I nod and sit at the table.
“You want me fix you something? Some eggs and toast?”
“Yes,” I say, sipping my coffee. “That would be nice. Gracias.”
She busies herself at the stove. I glance at the front page of the newspaper, which is dated Monday, March 4, 1963. “Slide Near Ouray Buries 3 Persons,” the headline proclaims. A photo fills most of the page, showing workers trying to rescue avalanche victims on a mountain pass in the southwestern part of the state.
“Alma,” I say as she places a plate in front of me. “Can you sit a minute and talk with me?”
She shrugs. “Sí. If you like.”
“Get yourself more coffee.”
She raises her eyebrows, but complies.
“I need some information,” I tell her as she settles into her seat across from me. “The things I’m going to ask you will probably sound crazy, because they are all things that I ought to already know. But I can’t remember them, and I need you to help me.”
She tilts her head curiously and waits.
“First, can you tell me when you started working for us?”
“Hmmm. I think May. It is nineteen fifty-eight. The house, it is nuevo,” she said. “You and Se?or Andersson and los ni?os just move in. You hire me because this house, it is too big for you to manage without help. Especially because you are working in those days, se?ora.”
“Was I? And what can you tell me about that?”
“You have tienda de libros. A bookshop. With the other lady, Se?orita Green. You go to the bookshop every day and leave los ni?os here. They are bebés then, not even two.”
“And you cared for them?”
She laughs. “Not me,” she says. “They are handful, those three. Cannot be managed by someone with a household to run. Meals to cook. No, se?ora, you have la ni?era. You do not remember Jenny?”
I shake my head. “Even if I did . . . tell me about her as if I didn’t.”
“She think she is high and mighty, that one. But you ask me, she is chafa. No good.” Alma’s lips pucker. “Jenny has fancy college degree in psiquiatría infantil . . . I do not know the English for this; it means taking care of los ni?os’ heads inside. But she finds no job doing that. You ask me why, I do not know. But later, when I come to know her, I think I can guess. So she come here, work for you and Se?or Andersson.” Alma hesitates, and then says, “No es mi lugar, se?ora, but I told you then, and I say again now. I had lots of güisa—girlfriends—who raised los ni?os, their own and others, and they fight for the job of raising yours. But Jenny, she is ‘professional.’ This is what you say then, se?ora.” Alma snorted. “Los ni?os pobres. Their own mamá can’t be here. Okay. Then they need someone else to be like mamá. They do not need someone to act like they are ratas de laboratorio.”
I can feel my face fall, and Alma puts her hand tentatively on mine. “Lo siento,” she says quickly. “I should not say this. It is cruel, to say this.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. Just go on.”
“Jenny works for you longer than me. She thinks she knows everything about this family. But I think that Jenny was estricto on los ni?os.” Alma withdraws her hand. “Especially Michael. Jenny thinks . . .” Alma sips her coffee and hesitates. “She thinks there is something wrong in his head. That he is loco. Sí. Okay, she is right about that. Lo siento decir, se?ora, but she is. But she also thinks she can cure it. Michael does not want to do things los otros ni?os do. Things todos los ni?os do. Throw a ball, listen to music, read books. These things do not interest him. He sits in a corner and hums. And Jenny pulls him by his little arms and makes him join los otros ni?os. She takes his hand and holds it apretado.” Alma puts one hand in the other and grips it tightly, causing her skin to redden beneath her fingers. She lets go and sighs, and I find that I sigh along with her.
Alma continues. “Jenny forces Michael to join their games. She tries making him sing. ‘Ring Around the Rosie.’ She pulls him, que todo se derrumbe. When he cries, she . . .” Alma bites her lip. “Really, you do not remember this, se?ora? You do not remember any of this?”
I swallow hard. “Just keep telling me.”
“She slaps him,” Alma says softly. “Se?ora Andersson, mi corazón, it breaks, seeing that. Jenny slaps him and he cries louder, and she picks him up and puts him in the corner and holds his mouth closed so he does not scream. He is un ni?o peque?o, such a small boy. Los otros ni?os—so sweet, same as now—they stand there, hold hands, they do not know what to do. They come to me and tug at my skirt. They do not have much words, but I know what they try to say: Alma, do something! And I put up my hands, because what can I do? ?Y qué? That woman, she is mono, but it is none of my business. My job is to clean los ba?os and cook, not raise los ni?os.”
“Did we . . .” I say softly. “Did Mr. Andersson and I . . . did we have any idea?”
“Well, el ni?o was loco, not right in the head. Lo siento decir. And everybody knows. Se?or Andersson knows before you. He begs you to take Michael to doctor. But you say Michael is fine, just a little shy and lento, cannot do things fast like los otros ni?os. You say he comes around, in time.”
“But we didn’t know . . . that he was being . . . that she was . . .”
Alma shakes her head. “No. You do not know about that. I should tell you. I should tell you long before I did.” She lowers her eyes. “Like I say, Jenny came here before me. Me, I am the new girl. In those days, I am afraid to speak up. Afraid to lose my job.”
“But you did . . . eventually.”
“Sí. More than a year pass. Then I speak up.” Her look is grim. “And when I speak up, you fire that Jenny como un rayo, like . . .” She waves her arm, making a zigzag pattern like lightning in the sky. “Me, I am glad of it. ?Adiós!” She sets down her cup. “And then you take Michael to the doctors. See what they think.”
“What did they tell me?”