Ben, Mom, Nic, me, Em . . . we’re peaceful together. é fácil ser gentil. Easy to be kind.
The Ellington house is eerily quiet when I arrive. I knock on the door, tentatively call “Hello!” but am met by nothing but silence. Do I just march in?
After several minutes of knocking, I kick off my shoes, head into the kitchen. The teakettle’s whistling on the stove, there are breakfast dishes on the table, a chair pushed back. But no sign of Mrs. E.
She’s not on the porch. Not in the living room or any of the downstairs rooms. Now I’m starting to panic. It’s my first day and I’ve already lost my employer. Did she go off to the beach alone? I’m right on time . . . wouldn’t she be expecting me?
Then I hear a crash from upstairs, along with a groan.
I take the steps two at a time, panic rushing up as fast as I do, calling Mrs. E.’s name.
“In here, dear,” she calls from a room at the back corner of the house, following that up with what sounds like a muffled curse.
I dash into the room to find her sprawled on the floor in front of a huge open closet door, covered with dresses and skirts and shirts. Seeing me, she lifts a hand in greeting and gives an embarrassed shrug.
“Guinevere, I must say, I am not enjoying being incapa-citated! I was reaching for my beach hat with my cane, overbalanced, and took half the closet down with me. Just 121
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trying to get a hat. How I shall contrive to change into my bathing suit, I cannot imagine. And the ladies will be here any minute.”
I take her hand and try to pull her to her feet, but she’s too wobbly for that to work. Finally, I have to put a hand under each arm, haul her upright.
“Dear me,” she mutters, swaying, “this is pure bother. I’m so sorry, dear Gwen. How undignified!”
I assure her it’s fine and, limping, she makes her way slowly to a green-and-white sofa in the corner of the room. I walk behind her, which is awkward because she keeps stopping, so I bump into her back three times in the short distance.
Luckily, she gives a low chuckle instead of getting angry or falling over again and breaking her hip. Reaching the couch, she sits down heavily, grimacing and rotating her ankle, shov-ing aside a big green leather case. It’s flipped open to reveal what looks like our junk drawer at home crossed with Pirates of the Caribbean—a crazy tumble of diamond rings, pearl necklaces, gold chains, silver bracelets, coral pins, an emer-ald necklace. I can’t help noticing this enormous diamond, so large, square, gleamingly clear that it reminds me of an ice cube. That thing could choke a pony. I would be afraid even to touch it. What would it be like to be so used to priceless things that you don’t set them carefully against the velvet, just toss them in like we do to the jumble of pens that don’t work, takeout flyers, flashlights, Grandpa Ben’s old pipes, discarded plastic action figures of Emory’s?
Mrs. E. gives another little groan, rubbing her ankle with a grimace.
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“Should I get some ice—for your ankle? Or something to rest it on? Are you okay?”
She reaches out to pat my cheek. “My dignity is slightly sprained, but I shall recover. My wardrobe is in far more need of assistance than I—” She jabs her cane in the direction of the spill of clothing. “If you would be so kind?”
Rehanging the closet is like traveling through time—there are sequined dresses and wild seventies prints, sheaths Audrey Hepburn could have worn to Tiffany’s, full-skirted, tight-waisted outfits, bell-bottomed pants. Mrs. E. has evidently never parted with a single outfit. I have a flash of an image of her trying them on in front of the mirror like an aging little girl playing dress-up. When I finally rehang the last of them, I turn around to find her completely nude.
Before I can stop myself, I let out a little screech. Mrs. E., who was bending over, picking something up off the floor, sways and nearly falls. I rush over to steady her, and then don’t know where to grab hold. Luckily, she catches herself on the arm of the couch as I wave my hands ineffectually behind her.
“Gwen, dear,” she says serenely, stretching out her wrist, from which a black bathing suit is dangling. “I fear I am going to require your assistance here.”
This is not how I imagined my first day at work. Flipping burgers, sprinkling jimmies, and frying shrimp is looking really good. Or weed-whacking. Or simply hijacking one of the lawn mowers and getting the hell off island.
“Close your eyes, dear,” Mrs. E. says briskly, possibly seeing me visibly brace myself. Her own eyes look sad.
I squeeze them shut, then immediately realize I actually 123
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have to see what I’m doing in order to pull black spandex onto an octogenarian with a broken foot and a cane.
So, okay, I’m not that comfortable with my own body. Who would be when their best friend is Vivie the Cheerleader?
When their school job is timing for a bunch of buff boys in Speedos? When your mom marks time by saying things like, “That was before I was such a blimp”?
But this takes body consciousness to a whole new level.
I’m bending over, yanking the suit over her soft, blue-veined calves, when she makes a little sound.
“Am I hurting you?” Oh God. I should have stayed at Cas-tle’s, should have scrubbed toilets with Mom, should have. . . .
“No, no, dear girl, it’s just that after a certain age, one barely recognizes oneself. Especially in a state of undress. It’s rather like the portrait of Dorian Gray, if he were female and wore a swimming suit.”
“Yoo-hoo!” calls a voice from downstairs.
“That will be the ladies,” Mrs. Ellington says, a bit breath-lessly, as I tug the swimsuit over her hips. “Go let them in. I believe I can manage from here.”
I open the door to find Big Mrs. McCloud, as she’s always called on Seashell (her daughter-in-law is Little Mrs. McCloud), Avis King, Mrs. Cole, as always clutching her tiny terrier Phelps like a purse, and, surprisingly, Beth McHenry, who used to work with Mom cleaning houses until she retired. They’re all wear-ing straw hats, sunglasses, and bathing suits. Among the ladies, there are no cover-ups, no sarongs, just brightly flowered suits with skirts, freckled skin that’s seen a lot of sun, wrinkles, and what Mom would call “jiggly bits.” I didn’t imagine my day 124
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would involve so many octogenarians in swimwear, but it’s kind of nice to see it all displayed so proudly. I usually wrap a towel around my waist when I’m in my suit in public. Avis King, who is built like an iceberg—small head, ever widening body—marches in first.
“Where’s Rose?” she growls, sounding like Harvey Fierstein with bronchitis. “Don’t tell me she’s still asleep! It’s high tide and perfect weather.” She looks me up and down critically.
“Lucia’s gal, am I right? You’re the one hired to be her keeper this summer. Ridiculous waste of money, I say.”
Keeper?
“Hello, Gwen!” Beth McHenry says, smiling at me, then furrowing her brows at Avis King. “Lordy, Avis. Rose did get a concussion just a week ago. Henry’s only being careful.”
“Pish. Just because Rose has a few memory lapses and a bum foot!” Mrs. McCloud pronounces. “Twice last week I hunted for my reading glasses when they were on my head, and put my car keys away in a box of saltines. No one’s hiring me a watchdog.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Mrs. Cole murmurs in her sweet voice.
“Typical of Henry Ellington, though. Just like his father.
Won’t come take care of the situation himself, hires other peo-ple to do it.” Avis King shakes her head. “How can you possibly know you’ve got good help unless you look them straight in the eye and interview them yourself? Any fool knows that.”
Help? My shorts and gray T-shirt suddenly morph into one of those black dresses with the ruffly white aprons servants wear in Grandpa Ben’s movies. I resist the urge to bob a curtsy.
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