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––––––––
The housekeeper ducked through a doorway and closed it carefully. The latch made only a tiny click, yet she flinched. She found the bedroom offered no hiding places except an open wardrobe. She tiptoed inside before sliding the door shut. Through gaps in the wardrobe, light fell upon an unusual suit hanging beside her. She touched a sleeve and gasped, finding it to be made of rubbery, black material.
The bedroom door clunked open. Heavy footfalls entered the room and paused. The hidden housekeeper covered her mouth. Suddenly, footsteps pounded toward her location. When the closet door whipped open, she screamed.
––––––––
The cab deposited Rita and little Gabe’s family in front of one of the grand monoliths of Manhattan, overshadowing lesser skyscrapers. Before they got into the elevator, a guard blocked them. As he took a moment to smile at the baby, his jacket opened to reveal a pistol in a shoulder holster. Then the guard checked identifications. Brain and Todd, even in their checkered suits, barely merited inspection. They had been here often. However, the guard nodded approval as he passed a sensor over Rita’s body. Brian and Todd’s joke had been she looked like a newly-hired elementary school administrator. They had chosen a slim-fitting blazer with a red skirt for Rita and pulled her hair into a bun.
Inside the elevator, Brian pressed the button for the penthouse. Rita’s knees buckled slightly as they shot upwards. Her ears popped at the sixty-third level. The car began slowing after seventy.
A smiling woman in a form-fitting, aborigine suit met them immediately when the doors opened. The woman said “Georgette will be detained a few minutes,” and made a gesture for them to follow.
She marched them to a broad passageway with ample, natural light and bade them to have a seat, indicating benches. The men had been here before and seemed humdrum, but the arched, glass-and-concrete arcade astounded Rita. It ringed a rooftop courtyard, overflowing with sunlight. The men sat with little Gabe on a bench together in their perfect, checkered suits and gazed at this oasis. The foliage reminded Rita of Japanese gardens she had seen, except the rocks here were entirely volcanic and the trees looked like something out of Vietnam. For a moment, she gazed at Brian and Todd, openly leaning against each other, aglow with a shared marvel appreciated within the fanlike fronds of the garden. They were in love with the view, each other, and the baby Brian cradled.
At odds with the thriving wilderness, everything on their side of the glass was sterile. In fact, Rita noted, there were no scents, not even aromatic leftovers of lunch from a hidden kitchen. No candles, oils, or incense colored the air. Not even a whiff of perfume.
This was at odds with Brian and Todd’s Theater District apartment, which always smelled of sandalwood and warm citrus. She missed it already. She missed them although they sat just a few feet away.
As if reading her mind, Brian smiled at her and said, “You’re the best, Rita. Georgette will pay you what you deserve, not what we pay you.”
Georgette arrived, escorted by two bodyguards and her entourage. The gentlemen rose. Their meeting felt cordial, but crisp and ritualized: a transaction atop a mountain peak, with winged angels in attendance. Rita waited to speak when spoken to. She clasped an imaginary clipboard behind her back.
After fussing over the baby and a few pleasantries with Brian and Todd, Georgette looked at Rita.
It was not the first time Rita had locked gazes with a one-percenter. Rita smiled back, unblinking. She stood by her white-glove guarantee. Still, she felt the weight of Georgette’s green eyes. Rita immediately understood: this flawless woman required flawlessness.
“Are you the best?” the slim woman asked. Her words came in clipped, well-mannered English.
Rita confirmed, “Yes Ma’am. Elite housekeeping, par excellence.”
The younger woman wore silver, horn-rim frames without lenses. Rita guessed she wore the frames as a warning. Take me seriously. Her daddy’s-girl face belied a businesslike attitude.
“I hear you have a guarantee.”
“If you find we are not compliant with the contract,” Rita said, “There is no charge for the week. No questions asked.”
“One hopes such a high standard is not abused.”
Rita nodded again, “It’s mutual. When we trust each other, we both perform better.”
Todd interjected, “See? She values the performance of her clients.”
“Is she trustworthy?” Georgette asked the men.
“None of our Chihuly swans have gone missing.”
“How is she with discretion?”
“Well,” Todd laughed, “You’d know if you’d heard about any of our crazy, sex parties.”
Georgette raised an eyebrow and nodded before saying, “Not through her.”
Brian coughed into a fist.
Todd recovered, stating, “We’ve had many housekeepers.”
“Fired all of them,” Brian added.
“And Rita puts them all to shame. It’s going to be really hard parting with her, but after everything you’ve done to help us adopt Gabriel? It was obvious. Your grand ball is coming, and you’re in a bind. After losing your housekeeper, well!”
Rita looked at little Gabe, bearing her deceased husband’s name. When Brian and Todd agreed give his name to their baby, she had been so excited. She wanted to help raise him, but Todd and Brian were ending Rita’s contract with them so she could work exclusively for Georgette.
“There’s nobody like Rita,” Brian spouted, “Nobody.”
Together, all three of them plus the entourage and two bodyguards regarded Rita in her heels and blazer. Rita was vaguely aware of their scrutiny, but her attention was elsewhere.
She scanned the penthouse, adding items to her mental checklist. She knew she had passed the first test and was preparing next steps.
The next day, she submitted thumbprints and personal information to a high-clearance private investigative firm. A bearded man in a brown suitcoat which had a chocolate, satin lining interviewed her over lunch. He jotted her answers down on a tablet and pretended to look bored, but his vulture-like questions kept circling over her heritage.
He wanted to know when she came to the United States, where she and her husband had lived, what kinds of jobs they held as they journeyed northwest. The investigator wanted to know every detail of her naturalization and how long she had lived in New York before and after her husband died. He subtly inquired how she managed to keep their cleaning business afloat on her own and whether she had accepted any support from anyone.
Finally, he asked whether she had any recent boyfriends. It was too easy to answer. She had not dated since Gabriel passed away.
He requested a list of references who would also submit to similar inquiries. Rita had served celebrities and politicians, but no employer had ever been this thorough.
––––––––
A week later, the chief of staff called and made Rita an offer that almost made her drop her phone. If only Gabriel was still alive! Their tenacity and reputation had finally paid off. She had scored “the big one” and could pay for her sons and their families to visit.
A security guard called immediately after Rita accepted the offer and asked her to come to the penthouse for her security fob.
“One question,” she asked Brian and Todd when stopped by their place to collect some of her supplies, “What does Georgette do?”
Todd responded, “Not exactly sure. Rude to ask at this point.”
“Don’t worry,” Brian added, “It never comes up. You won’t see her much anyway.”
Todd and Brian loved to gossip. Why did they hesitate to pursue this mundane topic? She struggled to recall any rich head of a household who did not define themselves by their vocation or avocation.
For the next three days, she fielded get-to-know-you interviews with twenty other staff members. When Georgette’s chief of staff, Jaqueline, called Rita, it felt like a presidential briefing.
“I’d like you to inspect the East Wing tomorrow. Georgette will remain in the West Wing, near the offices and the pool, most of the day. A helicopter will bring guests to the helipad around noon. Don’t be distracted. Several visitors should arrive via the lift as well. Some may wander into your area. They are permitted to roam the property freely. If you encounter anyone, do not make a scene, especially if they are famous. Do not engage with guests unless they engage you. I will meet you at the lift entrance tomorrow at, say, 10am?”
“10am is perfect.”
“Since English is not your native language,” Jaqueline said, “I must ask whether you need me to clarify anything. I do not speak Spanish yet, but I can learn. I already speak four languages.”
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”
At 10am, Jaqueline met Rita as expected. Rita recognized her as the one wearing aborigine on her first visit. Now Jaqueline wore a cream-colored pantsuit and gestured for Rita to wait as she finished a conversation with someone via headset, in Italian. Eventually, she sang arrivederci to the air and turned back to Rita. They shook hands and moved into the East Wing. White, Louis XIV furniture filled the space, bordered by etched, marble walls. It felt like a temple.
Jaqueline said, “Check anything you wish. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Rita nodded.
Jaqueline watched while Rita slid a gloved hand into the marble etchings, “Surely,” she prodded, “You will be recording the location of everything with a video camera?”
Rita continued moving through the space. Finding nothing in the walls, she looked behind an entertainment center and retrieved a strange, brown smudge on her index finger
“Don’t need a video,” she said, “It’s a popular furniture layout for this tax bracket, this particular season. Her taste in color is very helpful for my work.”
Everything in the room was white. Rita held out her smudged glove.
“I can see why the last housekeeper was fired.”
“Oh, she was not fired,” the chief of staff replied.
Jaqueline’s posture and smirk dared Rita to ask the obvious question. Instead, the housekeeper went back to her investigation, even going so far as to shine a pen light down into the floor registers.
“I will be attending to the cleaning personally, of course, until I have the right crew to back me up.”
“You have not yet staffed appropriately?” Jaqueline asked.
“Didn’t you review my background check?”
Jaqueline kept silent. It took a few seconds for Rita to realize she had not been admonished. Jaqueline had subtly upgraded the importance of recruiting.
Five years ago, Rita had downsized her business. All the excuses and politics that came with management exhausted her. Excuses, Rita knew, did not make stains go away. Back in the nineties, she had a dream team of flinty obresas who could work circles around most of the housekeepers available today. Those women had tenacious memories and chips on their shoulders, hauling buckets of hot water; white vinegar; and dish soap towards the smallest carpet stains because howcanyoujuststandtherewhilethatstainsets? Excuses are for the weak, they knew. Another thing they knew, in spite of how wonderful and competent they were: none of them could work faster or better than Rita. She paid the cost to be their boss.
––––––––
To celebrate Rita’s first day, Clarinda invited herself over with two bottles of white wine. Clarinda employed fifty or so of New York’s most attractive housekeepers, marketing to wealthy bachelors. Rita loved her friend but feared the inevitable question. It came as Clarinda poured both of them a second glass of Rosé.
“So,” Clarinda said with a wink, “Looking for help with your big score?”
Although Rita rehearsed how to sidestep the question, she hesitated. Clarinda stopped pouring.
“You don’t think my ladies are good enough to handle it?”
Clarinda took the unopened bottle and left. Rita followed onto the landing and listened as her friend stormed down the stairwell, muttering angry Tagalog.
When Rita re-entered her apartment, she went straight to the refrigerator and retrieved a pack of Camel No. 9s. Under a starless, New York night, she smoked two cigarettes and prayed for her children and grandchildren, asking God to bring them soon.
The next day, Jaqueline let her into the West Wing. This time, she did not hover over Rita. Free reign was given, except for areas deemed off-limits. Rita had just squatted down to dust the cross-bracing of a console table in an antechamber when she heard Georgette’s voice.
“Why do I smell cigarette smoke on you, Rita?”
Georgette stood in the doorway, peering into the antechamber. The young woman wore only a silk robe and a single-piece swimsuit. She looked as though she had been walking down the hall to the pool, but had frozen mid-stride, fifty feet away.
Rita said, standing, “I had two cigarettes yesterday, but I took a shower. If you can smell that on me from that end of the room, you have an amazing nose.”
“I do,” said Georgette, who swiveled her hips and entered the room, “I must admit, I would rather not have that smell in my home.”
Rita cleared her throat and forced herself to say, “That was not a part of the contract.”
Georgette lifted her chin and furrowed her eyebrows.
“You are correct. I would like to amend it.”
Rita swallowed. While Georgette’s legal team had been swift to execute her service agreement, a dizzying redline process added many unusual provisions: ever-changing off-limits rooms, strange hours, and unusual holidays. It required Rita to hire a lawyer on credit. But Rita needed this job more than cigarettes or a legal headache.
“Okay,” she conceded.
“Very good. What will it cost me?”
“Some would say this is a healthy favor you’re doing me. No charge.”
Georgette smiled and made to leave.
Rita asked, “Should I have my lawyer send your people the revision?”
Georgette paused.
“Can our word be our contract?”
“Y-yes, that’s fine.”
“Superb.”
With a flutter of her silk robe, Georgette strode away.
Rita steadied herself on the console table. She felt as though all the blood had rushed from her head.
“I need a nap,” she told herself.
––––––––
The chief of staff’s daily briefings had a military constancy. Every day for a week, they met at the lift and, assisted by a data pad, Jaqueline would scroll through a map of the penthouse.
“From eight A.M. to one P.M., the master bedroom and her offices will be off-limits. There was a small soiree in the ballroom last night, so you may wish to see to that mess right away. A second function will begin there at two-thirty P.M. Expect it to end at ten P.M. Your night crew should have the space clean before the next function, which will be tomorrow morning at six A.M.”
The night crew was, for now, also Rita. She had not yet hired staff. After her normal day of cleaning ended, she rushed out and wolfed-down a sandwich, then returned at ten-thirty.
She found the ballroom floor to be arranged differently than she had left it. Several of the chandeliers’ bulbs had gone out. Thirteen winged armchairs sat in a broad circle, facing center. Some dark shape lay on the floor amid the chairs but in the dim light she could not make it out until she came within several feet. It was a puddle of goo, like gelatinous bone broth. The upholstery of the armchairs, she noted, dripped with the stuff.
Technically, housekeepers are not house cleaners, but the contract paid her for a broad scope of work. It took her past midnight with a shop-vac and plenty of hot water and just a little detergent, but she got the stain out. Fortunately, it had no odor, whatever it was. She had to line up the chairs and point an industrial fan at them to start them drying.
Exhausted, she made her way to the elevator. She needed to get a couple hours sleep before returning at six A.M. She pressed the button and stood before the door, waiting for the elevator car to arrive. Laughter issued from somewhere in the penthouse.
The doors opened and a faint breeze rustled her clothing. In spite of appearances, Rita had the distinct impression the elevator car was occupied. Perhaps fatigue had gotten the best of her. Cautiously, Rita entered the polished interior. She saw only her reflection. When she turned to watch the doors behind her close, she yelped.
It has just been a glimpse before the doors shut, but someone had been standing there, watching.
The elevator began its descent. She rubbed at her goosebumps.
After some a shitty nap, Rita hustled back the next the morning and made her way to the ballroom. She paused when she saw an apparition within the glass, courtyard enclosure. It took a few seconds to realize it was Georgette, wearing what looked to be beekeeper’s gear. Fascinated, Rita watched Georgette until she was no longer visible behind the fanlike fronds.
Rita shook herself and went to the ballroom. There, she checked that the chairs were dry, put them in their proper places, and knocked-out multiple other items in the checklist, including lugging a 15’ ladder to replace the bulbs. Then she took the ladder to the library in the East Wing.
It was the most beautiful library she had ever seen. Jaqueline had mentioned it was an homage to some library in Prague, with hand-painted murals on the ceiling and gilded capital. There was also a large, bubbling box in the middle of the room which, she had been told, was a hooded aquarium full of blind, cave fish.
As she stood on the ladder, dusting shelves, something skittered behind books near her face. She hated vermin, but the contract compelled her. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to comply. Balancing, she reached towards the telltale book. Her heart pounded in her ears. With trembling fingers, inches from the spine of “The Book of the Damned” by Charles Fort, the door to the library banged open.
She almost fell off the ladder.
“Oh, my goodness, Rita!” Brian, her former employer chimed. He twirled a tumbler of dark alcohol. “Come down here. Right now!”
She came down shakily and threw herself into his arms. She found herself letting out a breath she had not realized she had been holding.
When her grip slackened, Brian held her at arm’s length and examined her.
“Well!” he laughed, “Somebody needed a hug!”
“I’m okay,” Rita said, “I’m just exhausted. I have to hire a staff and I can’t find time.”
“Do you need help? It’s hard to finding people as good as you.”
“Mr. Brian, that’s very nice of you, but-.”
“We’re family. What would you need?”
“Just to check emails and respond, but you don’t have to worry about me.”
Brian looked shocked.
“Rita, why on earth would I not worry about you?”
“Can I pay you for helping me?”
His reaction caught her off guard. The color drained from his face as though she had uttered an obscenity. She checked if she had slipped into Spanish like she used to, but no.
She asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Brian?”
“Rita, Rita, Rita,” he said, taking a belt of his whiskey, “That’s not how we do things. Let’s just keep Georgette happy, you understand? That’s the only thing we need to do.”
“Okay.”
“She’s got that big party coming up next month. You’ll have a staff to handle it.”
Rita thought about that conversation over the next few days while she worked with Brian to assemble a crew. He even conducted phone interviews and arranged background checks. His fervor startled her.
“Can you imagine!” he shouted after a recent interview, “Can you imagine someone with such strong opinions about burnished wood? If Kendra had five minutes to talk about burnished wood in a thirty-minute interview, can you imagine the time she’d steal from Georgette?”
Holding the receiver away from her ear, she listened to Brian finish his update while she cleaned one of the guest bathrooms. It was good to have a distraction. Brian’s call gave her something else to focus on besides the mess she had been scrubbing. By the time he hung up, she had almost finished sponging a multi-colored, Pollock splatter off white tile.
Good thing she always wore gloves.
––––––––
“Do you trust them?”
Georgette found Rita in the observatory on Monday. Rita had been lost in thought, holding the hem of blackout curtains in her hand. She had been checking for signs of sun-aided deterioration.
Rita shook herself from her examination and regarded her client. Georgette stood, again, at the entrance to the room. She wore a pink turtleneck and gray slacks that showed off her petite frame.
“I’m sorry?’
“Do you trust your staff?” Georgette repeated, without any hint of judgement.
“They are the best available in Manhattan.”
The woman arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
“I’m not typically concerned about availability. You were not available, yet here you are.”
Touché.
Rita had pulled open the windows to inspect the curtains. She stood exposed to the unobstructed sky of Manhattan and all of its sunshine. A trickle of sweat dribbled down her back.
“My guarantee,” Rita said, “Is of course extended to the work of my employees. I am training them myself.”
The woman considered that, “The ball is Friday. There can be no mistakes.”
The sun on her neck felt like a steam iron. Rita swallowed. There had been something she wanted to say. Now was the time to say it.
“About that,” she said, “I’ve been planning to take some time off. Just four days.”
The little woman waited.
“Starting Friday,” Rita finished.
Out of professional courtesy, Rita did not mention she had not slept more than four hours a night for the last three weeks. She also did not mention that Friday was her anniversary – hers and Gabriel’s. She did not mention that every year, she visited his grave, drank, and smoked cigarettes all day.
“Ah. Friday,” was all Georgette said.
“My crew will be ready by the ball.”
“Ready means perfect,” said Georgette.
“White glove,” Rita promised.
The mysterious pixie nodded once, pivoted on one foot, and walked away. As her footsteps receded, Rita felt that horrible sensation of light-headedness again. She drunkenly attempted to examine the stitching of the blackout curtain. Her head buzzed, then the sounds of more footsteps rang over the tile floors, as though an invisible crowd jogged after Georgette.
She really needed sleep.
––––––––
The etymology of the word “mistake” literally means “to take in error”. To carry wrong. To miscarry.
The miscarriage occurred Wednesday night when Rita made a surprise inspection of the night crew. She told them she would be taking the night off, but when she laid down on her bed at 10pm, she knew sleep would not be coming. After training the crew three days and nights Georgette’s words haunted her.
“Ready means perfect,” Rita groaned, sitting up in bed.
By 10:37pm, Rita found herself standing at the foot of a different bed. One of the penthouse’s opulent guest bedrooms held a stripped mattress, marred by muddy brown stains.
She shot a look at her two employees – Emma and Viv – waiting for an explanation.
“When we pulled back the sheets, it was like that,” Emma said, still clutching the sheets.
Rita sighed and looked at the precocious one, Viv, waiting for an answer.
“We’re supposed to use waterproof mattress covers,” Viv groaned.
Emma, holding the sheets to her chest, looked back and forth from Rita to Viv, her mouth and eyes wide.
Viv kept her eyes to the ground, hands balled into fists.
Rita did not say anything to provoke Emma. She just imagined Georgette saying, “Ready means perfect.” Her expression must have changed because suddenly Emma’s fear peaked.
“What is that brown stuff anyway?” she snapped, “It’s like gravy fat! I find it everywhere. And who are we working for? What does she do”
Conspicuously absent from their training had been any mention of Georgette. The contract forbade documenting Georgette’s details or habits. However, other than a physical description of her client, Rita did not have information to share. Although she lived in a Manhattan penthouse and lived like a celebrity Georgette was a ghost. Nobody Rita knew, except for Brian and Todd, had heard of Georgette. A Google search for “Georgette Manhattan” only turned up a rotisserie-themed restaurant.
Rita muttered a prayer as Emma broke down, allowing all her thoughts to spill out.
“Who the fuck leaves gravy in their bed? Who the fuck leaves green gravy dripping from the chandelier? A fish tank with a hood over it? Something like a giant foreskin hanging from the shower curtain? Seriously? I need this job,” Emma said, breathlessly “But Rita, what the fuck is going on? I opened a closet when I got here and there’s some kind of rubber suit-”
Rita pursed her lips. She was exhausted. Her eyebrow twitched and her skin felt greasy, but she pretended to be a model employer.
“Ladies,” she said, “Let’s go get a cigarette.”
They followed her to the elevator and then to the underground parking lot. Rita did not join them even though every nerve in her body begged for the false relief of nicotine. Instead, Rita stood well away from Emma and Viv as they passed a lighter back and forth. Rita sent a few texts to Todd and Brian, who responded immediately.
RITA: Emma’s not working out.
TODD: Where is she?
RITA: Parking garage. Got them outside to smoke.
BRIAN: Send her home. I’ll handle it.
RITA: What about Viv?
TODD: If she smoked, she can’t go back in.
RITA: OK. But we need to keep her.
BRIAN: Can you cover their shift tonight?
RITA: No sweat.
BRIAN: You are the best, Rita. Love you sweetie!
She heard the scuffle of footsteps. The women approached, smelling of burnt tobacco. Emma wrapped herself tightly in a baby blanket she must have pulled out of her car.
“Good news, ladies,” Rita said, smiling, “I’m able to give you both the night off. It’s been a stressful start, but tomorrow is a new day.”
Emma smiled, hopeful. Rita smiled back. Viv nodded, but did not make eye contact.
––––––––
The good news is that the adrenaline of the evening carried Rita through the first few hours better than any cup of coffee. The bad news is that, eventually, the adrenaline wore off.
At 1:51am Wednesday morning, Rita was finishing up the Tuesday evening checklist. After taking over for both Emma and Viv, Rita found several other rooms with “gravy” on the furniture or carpet. Fortunately, no one had neglected fabric pre-treatment or waterproof mattress covers. Rita’s five-step process of grabbing loose matter with hot towels; suctioning the remainder with the wet-vac; spraying stains with warm, white vinegar; letting it soak; then blotting with a chamois worked perfectly. It just took a lot of time.
At 1:51am Wednesday morning, Rita had removed all the gravy. She had completed the checklist.
At 1:52am, Rita saw a scuff on the parquet floor of the entertainment room. She got on her hands and knees with a microfiber rag and began to rub it.
At 1:52am Wednesday morning, Rita was unaware it was Wednesday. The briefing she had received about Wednesday was in effect. Rita, working to separate a thin layer of rubber molecules from a thin, crystalline layer of Polyurethane, was unaware she knelt inside an area that had become off-limits exactly one hour and fifty-two minutes ago.
For a moment, on her hands and knees behind a couch, fatigue overcame her. She closed her eyes and her defenses fell. Relaxation blitzed her shoulders and hips. She let her head fall, igniting a marvelous stretch throughout her neck. Her body moaned its need for sleep and she almost complied.
Perhaps, her bleary mind rationalized, I could just lie against this velvety couch and close my eyes for fifteen minutes.
She heard the doors open.
She heard Georgette say, “Siéntete como en casa!”
Rita’s eyes opened wide and adrenaline returned.
She heard multiple voices in multiple languages. None of them English or Spanish. Rita looked at her watch.
1:53am.
FUCK.
Rita found herself sprawled behind the couch at the back of the entertainment room. She heard the guests enter, lively and chattering.
Although she had eluded discovery so far, they would soon find the maid (the maid!) on her hands and knees in an off-limits room.
The springs and joints of furniture groaned, apparently accepting heavyweight posteriors.
She would lose her only client.
She would disappoint Brian and Todd.
What would happen to her employees and payroll?
Everything she had worked for.
The chance to bring her grandchildren to the United States.
Gone.
There were two exists to the room. Georgette had entered with her guests at the front of the room. The rear exit waited fifteen feet away from Rita’s face. She stared at the braided, wrought-iron knob.
Georgette giggled something. Was that French? Another voice, sounding like bubbling tar, resounded through the room.
“Jorgè” said Georgette in English, “Jorgè, you animal!”
The bubbling voice responded, quieter. A few others chuckled.
“Oh you,” said Georgette, playfully, “It’s never hard to guess what you are thinking. But can’t you see, we have guests?”
Another voice, thick with a French accent, said, “But Georgette, is zees not an entertainment room? Should we not be entertained within eet?”
Delighted laughter chorused, or what passed for laughter. The diversity of sound brought to mind the multi-colored oozes splattered on the white tile in the bathroom. Some of the voices trilled like operatic divas. Others groaned like pelicans.
“Oh, boo,” said Georgette, “I thought we might get to play charades.”
Rita felt a flame of hope. While everyone transitioned to a parlor game, she might be able to make it to the door without being seen.
A female (Rita guessed it was female because of its silky tone and the serpentine motion of its shadow) said, “We can play charades... of a sort. As our host, you get to go first. Let me whisper a secret subject into your ear.”
Rita heard the chair groan softly and this female rose. Her shadow ballooned on the wall and ceiling. Was she taller than the chandelier bulbs? Did she have multiple arms? Some kind of shuffling sound came from the center of the room. Rita heard Georgette let out a pretty little gasp.
Rita strained to hear anything at all for a few seconds. The silence remained absolute until the slow and distinct sound of unzipping.
Rita made the sign of the cross.
The sound of ripping fabric, followed by an exuberant and discordant ululation from many throats filled the air. The floor vibrated with a series of thumps, crackles, and something like rushing water.
An object flew over the couch and hit the wall. It was big and rubbery and fell from the wall to the ground between Rita and the door. Uncharacteristically, Rita did not examine the pizza-sized splatter it left on the wallpaper or consider how to extract the stain without damaging the wallpaper. She did not even consider the circle of blood spreading around the thing or whether blood could stain polyurethane. Rita’s eyes locked on the thing itself and everything ceased to matter except getting out of the room with her life.
Georgette’s skin lay between Rita and the door. Although its limbs splayed out like a pile of laundry, Rita knew it was her skin. The empty-eyed mask bore Georgette’s beautiful hair.
She heard the guests rise as one. The floor scraped and thumped. They jostled each other noisily. Rita peeked around the side of the couch and saw a mass of shapes converging. They faced the middle of the room. Staying low, Rita ran over the pile of skin (as she glimpsed down, she could see it still wore a green evening gown, tangled in a deflated mass) to the door.
She gave the knob a twist and opened it, but as she exited, she snuck one last look at the horror in the middle of the room. She covered her mouth, stifling a scream.
A variety of organisms wriggled together. Rita could not make out bodies so much as tangling nodules and appendages. Hairy, gaping mouths; whiplike tendrils; twisted horns; tangles of muscle. Almost a huddle, they embraced a single, wet mass within their midst. A pulsing heap of flesh, swelled and sweated gelatin as the other things leaned into it. Even though some of the creatures were large, the invertebrate dwarfed them all. Its central protuberance, already the size of an elephant, inflated and thumped into the ceiling, showering the partygoers in ooze.
A slit opened in that swelling extremity, revealing a cluster of eyeballs of various sizes. Numerous, green irises swiveled to look at Rita.
Her head swimming like a drunk, Rita ran. She did not care if anyone heard her footsteps. She did not take the elevator and she did not stop to gather her things. She stumbled down almost eighty flights of steps to the parking garage, got in her car, and tried like hell not to hit any of the concrete walls on her way out.
Whether she blacked out or not, Rita could not say. She did not remember parking or getting into her apartment.
She did not sleep that night. For hours, she hugged her knees to her chest on her bed, shivering and weeping. Sometimes, especially after she heard a thump from another apartment, she had to cover her mouth with a pillow. It seemed wise to muffle the high-pitched sounds that came out on their own.
––––––––
Hours and maybe days later, after she ignored countless phone calls and texts, she heard a knock on the front door.
“Rita, open the door. It’s Brian and Todd.”
Their voices were sweet and concerned. But, Rita guessed, they could be monsters in rubbery skin suits. It was best not to answer the door. Or their calls. In fact, she decided, it would be best to hit her phone with a hammer and stop thinking about the outside world.
She wandered from room to room, softly humming and touching her face with her fingertips. The sound and sensation of her own hand on her face reassured her. She did not touch her lips, though. She did not like touching her lips because that made her think of folding skin. No, Rita preferred to touch her cheeks, her own forehead, and sometimes her neck. Sometimes Rita tugged at her own hair. It felt good to pull on her own hair. She touched and tugged at herself, over and over and over, all day and night until she passed out from exhaustion and dehydration.
––––––––
That’s how they found her, slumped under the dinner table, wearing pajamas. Her hair was a mess.
When Rita came around, her eyes were caked and her lips were dry. She was in an armchair in Brian and Todd’s place. She had an IV drip in her arm.
Day and night, the men cared for her. They bathed her and took turns feeding her. It was difficult because Rita would not accept broth or jello at first. The sight repulsed her. The men decided on plain yogurt. It helped. The men kept the lamps near her very dim. They moved slowly, kept their voices down, and tried everything they could not to startle her. After a few days, when she could converse again, they discussed mundane subjects like the weather and the Mets.
One evening, as Todd and Brian tucked a clean comforter around her, Rita said, “Georgette is made of giant, brown tongues. The tongues have eyes.”
The men looked at each other as Rita touched her face and pulled her own hair.
“We know,” said Brian.
“We know,” said Todd.
Gradually, over the course of the next few days, Rita’s mannerisms returned to normal. She even got to the point where she could talk about what she saw without having an episode. On the day when Rita successfully dressed herself in some jeans and a sweater, the doorbell rang.
“Visitor?” she asked.
The men did not respond. Apparently dreading something, they hugged each other instead.
“What’s going on?” Rita begged.
“C’mon,” said Todd, “C’mere,” and he pulled her into their hug.
She could feel their cocoon of heartbeats. She pressed her head into their shoulders for comfort.
“We’re right here with you, Rita. Everything is fine.”
“What’s going on? Who is at the door?”
Todd said, “She came here to see you.”
Rita tried to suppress the whimper that came out on its own. To her credit, it was much quieter than the shrieks she had made, weeks ago.
“We’re not going to let anything happen to you,” said Brian, “You got this.”
When Georgette came in, she was inside her skin again. She wore a white button-down, cream-colored pants, and sandals. She did not wear her glasses. She looked calm, approachable, and quite human.
She stopped a good twenty feet from the trio of them, all huddled together on the couch under a comforter.
“Hello Rita,” she said.
Rita did not know what to say. All she could think about was how different Georgette’s face looked with eyeballs.
Georgette continued, “Well, you seem to be looking good. I was worried about you.”
“How was the ball?” Rita asked, hating herself for sounding apologetic, but years of professional patterning could not be stopped in a day.
“Oh Rita,” Georgette sighed, “You mustn’t worry about that. We canceled it because-“
“Where do you keep the rest of you?” Rita blurted out, “Like, all the other eyeballs?”
Georgette winced and looked at the floor.
“I am very sorry you had to see that so suddenly.”
Rita felt like vomiting but nodded.
“I won’t stay long,” Georgette said, “I know this is hard. I came here to make you an offer and then I will go. I would like to continue to pay your salary, even if you do not wish to set foot in my home again.”
“That’s hush money?”
Georgette grimaced but nodded.
“Is that what happened to the last housekeeper?”
“It is.”
“What else?” Rita hissed. She suddenly found it hard to govern what came out of her mouth. The hairs on her neck and forearms prickled. She felt a surge of something raw and hot in her bloodstream.
Haltingly, Georgette said, “I will triple your salary if you continue to work for me. Brian and Todd were absolutely correct. You are the best.”
Rita just glared at her.
“I can see that will take some time to process. I will see myself out.”
With that, Georgette turned towards the door.
Before she could stop herself, Rita shot off the couch and stormed after Georgette. Primal instinct animated her body. After a brief scuffle, Rita grabbed Georgette by the tips of her flared collar and pushed her against the door. She heard Brian and Todd cry out. They started to pry Rita away.
“Wait!” said Georgette, and the men released Rita.
Rita and Georgette were both petite. They came eye to eye. Raw emotion surged inside Rita from a secret place that had not opened since her childhood. Hatred of the unknown burned in her bosom. She had the enemy by the throat.
“You’re a bug! You’re a worm!”
Georgette, her back against the door, seemed startled at first, but her expression flattened.
“More of a mollusk, actually.”
“I should kill you!”
Brian and Todd, somewhere in the room, moaned.
“That’s the simian response of your genus,” Georgette mused. Her expression was more appropriate for a podium than for being pressed against the door, “But I’m hoping we can get past that.”
“You don’t belong here!”
Georgette just smiled, without pity or condescension, and said, “No mercy for an illegal alien?”
“Oh,” Rita chuckled angrily, “That’s low.”
She released Georgette with a final shake and stepped back. The creature did not bother to straighten her shirt. She stood beside the door, her hair askew and one strap of her bra showing.
Just like a normal person.
“Nothing meant by it,” whispered Georgette, “Except the truth. The tables have turned. My residence and my life are in your hands.”
“You’re rich,” said Rita, “You could have me wiped out.”
“Potentially.”
Rita froze.
Georgette continued, “But that’s not how I operate. With consideration for your traumatic experience, I’m going to forget this happened except for the part where I made my offer. That stands, Rita. You really are the best.”
After adjusting her hair and bra strap, the creature left.
Rita gritted her teeth and tightened her leg muscles. It helped her fight the ensuing light-headedness that arrived every time Georgette departed.
––––––––
Rita did not immediately consider Georgette’s offer, but Brian and Todd began inviting guests over. “Friends of Georgette,” they called themselves. Normal human guests. People who told Rita about Georgette’s profound acts of kindness. How she influenced this or prevented that. They all shared a strange look in their eyes – slightly wild – but they also smiled a lot and seemed genuinely happy.
Rita wondered whether they knew an abomination lived under Georgette’s rubbery skin, like Brian and Todd did. She did not ask. She feared she might hurt someone.
––––––––
Eventually, Rita could not take any more of Brian and Todd’s “help.” She moved back into her own apartment and, after sweeping up the shattered remains of her old phone, she acquired a new phone. Then she called the landlord to thank him for letting Brian and Todd in. She did not know exactly what to say. Technically, it was illegal to have let the men in without police involvement.
“Not a problem!” he interrupted with his thick, Brooklyn accent, “We’re all one big fuckin’ family, eh?”
“Family?”
“Yeah. Just a bunch of bees in Georgette’s hive, you might say.”
She hung up, resolved to get her life back together but her cell phone rang almost immediately. It was her son.
“Hola?”
He had been worried, attempting for days to reach her, but her voicemail was full. After she assured him that she was fine, he explained, in a hurried voice, how the White House agenda impacted their plan to come to the United States. Mexico had succumbed to threats of increased tariffs. They signed an agreement with the United States and reshaped migration policies. The Migrant Protection Protocols forced greater scrutiny on the immigration process, slowing it indefinitely.
It did not matter how much money Rita had in savings. It would be illegal to see her grandchildren faster than what is allowed by the wheels of bureaucracy. He son knew a guy. It would be expensive.
They did not reach a decision. What could they do? Before they hung up, they could only agree to talk more. Rita’s hands trembled as she rushed to the refrigerator and pulled out a chilled and almost forgotten pack of Camel No. 9s.
––––––––
“Why do I smell cigarette smoke, Rita?”
Georgette again had come out of nowhere. This time, they both stood in the library along with Emma and Viv’s replacement, Tony. Tony was younger, without a lot of training as a housekeeper, but he was muscular and had experience as a police officer. Rita hired him for his ability to move furniture but secretly expected to use him for personal protection. As Georgette strode in, Emma politely shut down her vacuum and busied herself by straightening the fringe of the carpet. Tony continued pulling out each book in the library, one by one, so that he could run a synthetic feather duster over each and inspect the shelf for mice droppings.
Rita glanced at her employees and said, “Smoking is not allowed, Ma’am.”
“Indeed,” Georgette said. She crossed her arms and glared from across the library’s massive space.
The contract. Whether or not she trusted Georgette, she knew she had violated their contract. Rita still needed the money. She still had backpay to handle for her “time off.” She had lost a lot of clout with her staff, especially the one who resigned.
Potentially, Rita needed the money to pay the coyote for getting her family across the border. Her dream seemed to be slipping further and further away.
The feather duster shook in Rita’s hands. She tried to set it down gently before it betrayed her, but it did anyway. It slipped from her unsteady grip and clattered onto the glass reading table.
One of Georgette’s eyebrows went up. She uncrossed her arms.
“Would the two of you mind giving your employer and I some privacy?”
Rita bit her tongue as Emma and Tony, her intended protector, left the room.
For a few moments, Rita could only hear herself breathing.
“Am I fired?” she asked.
“Heavens, no, Rita. I am very sorry you are so nervous around me.”
Rita pressed her lips together and forced a slow breath through her nostrils.
“But,” Georgette continued, “I’m sensing it is something more than that. I can’t believe you would break our contract, even under the circumstances. Are you okay?”
Like a tsunami, a sense of compassion so large it seemed tactile rushed from where Georgette stood and broke around Rita. Tumbling in that surf, Rita found herself crying. Before she knew it, her head was on Georgette’s shoulder. The woman must have crossed fifty feet of space in an instant. Rita sobbed all of her concerns about border restrictions and fears about seeing her grandchildren onto her alien employer’s silk blouse. Her compassion – if such a thing could be rated – felt exponentially greater than what even Brian and Todd had exhibited
Georgette’s body felt firm – tightly packed, actually – although her figure lacked hard bones. Rita found the sensation oddly comforting. Rita closed her eyes and squeezed Georgette like a human-sized stuffed animal while letting her anxiety pour out. The little creature smelled like cinnamon oatmeal and molasses.
As the last notes of her cathartic diatribe escaped her, Rita felt Georgette pull away. There was a sound like rushing water and, quite suddenly, Rita stood alone in the library, clutching empty air where Georgette had stood.
Knowing the light-headedness would come soon, Rita sat down at the glass reading table. She felt embarrassed and vulnerable. She had inexplicably touched and opened her heart to an alien employer who had vanished.
The scent of cinnamon oatmeal and molasses still lingered. Somehow, even though she had showered, the aroma brought out and highlighted a smell of burnt tobacco. It was not a pleasant combination.
As she got her head together, she glanced at the hooded aquarium. A tentacle had appeared from under the black fabric, drawing it up a few inches from the bottom. Rita could see an orange iris with rectangular pupils on the other side of the glass looking under the hem at her. The tentacle vanished with a slurp. The hood dropped back into place over the eye. Rita’s mouth fell open.
––––––––
Even though she got home that night, head buzzing with thoughts chasing each other, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was that kind of rare, dreamless and complete sleep that people rise from at odd hours of the night, fully awake. But Rita slept a perfect eight hours and opened her eyes right before the alarm went off.
She rose, stretched, got her coffee, and turned on the news.
A puzzled-looking news anchor said, “No idea how long these plans had been in the works, but pundits are absolutely baffled. As mentioned before, this appears to be a complete reversal of the administration’s stance on immigration and these statements seem to have come out overnight.”
Rita squinted at the words on the screen. The scrolling ticker-tape below the face of the anchor read: “POTUS Plans To Revoke Title 8 Sec 1325, legalizing Improper Entry by Alien.”
Rita sprang up, leaving the television going, and started to throw clothes on. The anchor continued speaking.
“Already, Congress is in uproar as this comes on the heels of what had been the strongest, anti-illegal stance from the presidency since 1929. The message, however, seems to be received well by hard-left lobbyists and by many in Mexico. You are seeing live footage of celebrations at the border.”
Rita drove nearly as fast as the night she saw Georgette’s true self for the first time. After parking her car, bumper inches from the concrete barrier, she sprinted up the steps. Diving headlong past the security guard, she made her way through a small crowd towards the elevator. (She was oblivious that she pushed her way past several heads of state and their bodyguards on their way out.)
Rita kept her eyes on the LED numbers which could not change fast enough for her taste. So focused was she on the numbers, she was unaware she was not alone until a voice said, “Hello Rita.”
She jumped, startled, and found Jaqueline, Georgette’s chief of staff, smiling at her.
“Oh!” Rita said, “I uh, I am sorry I-“
“Interesting news this morning, eh?”
“I can’t believe it!”
Jaqueline’s smile was so knowing it almost seemed wicked.
“No briefing today,” she said, “All areas are open to you today. Nothing is off limits.”
When she winked one eye, Rita saw that one iris became orange with a rectangular pupil. Rita fell against the wall of the elevator as the car bumped, chimed, and the doors opened.
Jaqueline literally vanished. Suddenly, Rita was alone.
She rushed into the garden, paying no heed to the gardener’s warning. Rita pushed through a serious of airlock-like doors and scurred along a flagstone path until she found Georgette standing in her beekeeper’s gear. In a diaphanous veil and bleached outfit, surrounded by bees, little Georgette appeared like a saintly astronaut, orbited by stars.
“Good morning,” sang Georgette, “My, aren’t we starting early!”
“I saw the news this morning.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for this. How? Why?”
Georgette smiled as she closed the lid on one of the hives. In her open hand was a bee. To Rita, it looked only slightly larger than any other bee.
“This is their queen,” she said, “The entire hive works to appease her. They protect her fiercely, feed her, and clean up after her. It’s a beautiful contract. The queen’s entire job is to benefit the hive, through the production of and protection of young. The job of the entire hive is to serve her and therefore, to nurture her young.”
Rita felt like she knew where this little speech was going. She thought about her own young, thousands of miles away.
“I’m not a member of your hive,” Rita whispered, “You can’t pay me enough.”
“That is not how I operate,” Georgette laughed, removing her veil. Her green eyes twinkled in the morning light.
Georgette put the little queen down on the hive and unzipped her beekeeper’s garb. Her human body stepped naked into the morning light. It was the body Rita’s mind could handle and yet, it was almost too dazzling to behold. Only the two of them stood in the garden at the very top of the world.
“I find the best candidates and give them the opportunity to volunteer. And you, Rita, are absolutely one of the best.”
Rita held her breath.
“Would you like to join our little family, Rita?”
They both knew what her answer had to be; the hive will always protect its young. Rita stepped forward. There came a sound like rushing water.