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~ GOING TO WORK WITH MAMA ~

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My birthday’s circled on the calendar: ednesday,April 24.

Mama promised I could invite eight girls to my birthday party, because I’ll be eight years old. Only, there’s not going to be a party because one week before my birthday, I came down with chicken pox and I’m quarantined for two whole weeks. That means no party at home or at school.

I still have a family celebration. Mama makes macaroni and cheese and angel food cake with pink frosting, my favorites. I wear my Sunday dress all day, and don’t have to do dishes. There are cards piled on my plate at supper time. We don’t give gifts for birthdays. Gift giving is saved for Christmas.

Eight candles are lit on the cake. My family sings “Happy Birthday” to me. With all the breath I can gather, I blow out all the candles, making my silent wish: “A Shirley Temple doll, for next Christmas.”

Finally, the itchy blisters have gone away, and just a few red spots are left. Tomorrow, Mama goes to her cleaning job and I don’t want to be home alone again like last Friday. It’s my only chance.

“Mama? Can I go with you tomorrow?” She’s sitting down, mending holes in socks. “No one will be at the doctor’s house; no one can catch my chicken pox. See, they’re all gone.”

Mama doesn’t even look up, just says, “I’m much too busy to keep watch on you while I’m there cleaning.”

“But I can help you clean. I’m good at it,” I blurt out.

“Well,” Mama hesitates. I hold my breath as she jabs the needle in the sock hole. “Maaybee—Well, maybe you could help dust under the beds. My bad knee still bothers me.”

I’m so happy I want to jump up and down, but try to stay calm.

“Thank you, thank you! I’ve always wanted to go to the doctor’s house, see all the rich things he has, and—”

Mama cuts me off quick. “I don’t want you snooping around while we’re there. I need to work fast, and get things done quick as I can.”

“I’ll work real hard,” I promise. “And I can learn all about cleaning from you too. Maybe I can clean houses, same as you do, when I get bigger.”

Mama stops darning. “I hope you’ll find something better to do than cleaning houses. Besides, you’ll be married, have a house of your own to clean.”

I never think about being married, it’s much too far away.

The next morning, I get up early. I don’t even tell the others I’m going, because who knows what they might say. Mama doesn’t talk about it either. I just hope she hasn’t forgotten. Catherine has to take Mitzy and Sonny to Grandma’s and I help get them ready. Daddy’s already gone cutting wood, and Mama’s doing things around the house before she leaves.

“ Don’t get too lonely all by yourself,” Buddy warns me in his scary voice. “And make sure you stay out of my stuff,” he adds, closing the door with a bang.

Finally, everyone’s gone. I have old clothes on for cleaning, and a tablet and pencil in a paper bag, in case I want to write down anything while I’m there. I can hardly wait for my new adventure to begin.

Mama’s ready, her shopping bag filled with cleaning things, purse in hand. “All right Lulu, let’s get going. It’s a long walk and I don’t want you complaining along the way.”

We close the door, but don’t lock it. “Nothing worth stealing in this house, and surely no money.” Mama’s favorite words.

We walk fast, all the way to the other side of town, the houses getting bigger and richer each block.

“That’s it,” Mama says, pointing to a grand house with tan stucco siding, an orange tiled roof, and lots of plants and trees in a yard big enough to be a park.

I start going up the front walk.

“Not that way,” Mama interrupts. “We go in the back door.”

So we walk up the double driveway to the back of the house. Mama has a key to let herself in. As the door opens, I can already smell a different kind of place—like it has lots of unused air, ritzy things, gigantic spaces. I keep close to Mama so I don’t get lost right away.

“We’ll start upstairs,” Mama says, taking off her coat and hat and setting out her cleaning things.

I want to stay downstairs and look around a bit, find out where all the doors go, and what’s inside each room. Instead, I follow Mama up the giant winding staircase, away from the huge downstairs hall that has pretty stained glass windows and flat colored stones on the floor.

On the second floor, there are four bedrooms. Even though no one uses most of them, or the three bathrooms, they still have to be cleaned and dusted every week.

“How come you have to clean rooms when they’re not even dirty?”

“Because that’s what they want, and that’s what I’m paid to do,” Mama answers.

We go into a room that’s all different shades of green. Flowers and vines are painted on the walls, outlining the doors and windows, as if they were really growing there. I feel like I’ve walked right into a lovely picture.

Mama gives me a big dust rag and tells me to wipe the floors carefully under each bed, leaving no speck of dust, and then wipe all the windowsills in each of the upstairs rooms.

“Whose room is this, Mama?” I’m still entranced at how it’s decorated.

“It’s the guest room.”

“A guest room?”

“Yes, people who come to visit, they use this room.”

“But, don’t they use the parlor for company?”

“This is where guests stay overnight.”

“You mean they have a whole empty room, just waiting, in case people sleep overnight?” Nobody I know has such fancy rooms that are just “extra.”

“I can’t spend all day talking.” She goes back to polishing things. “When you’re done here, do the room next door.”

I’m in the peach room now, where the doctor and his wife sleep, but not together—in twin beds. The unwrinkled silky taffeta bedspreads look like they’ve never been slept in. The tall windows have long drapes of peach taffeta over lace curtains. There’s a big dressing table with a skirt of puffy peach and turquoise ribbons, and a huge round mirror above. On its glass tabletop are all kinds of fancy perfume bottles, lotion jars, and matching ivory comb and brush sets. I’m so tempted to smell each of the perfumes and try some lotion on, but know Mama would certainly catch me. She has eyes in the back of her head—we all know that. I pick up the blue perfume bottle and sniff the outside. It’s sweet and spicy. Quickly, I put it down and wipe off my hands, but the scent remains.

What if it stays on me?

I stare at myself in the mirror with ruffled gold edging. I look small, far away, as if I don’t belong in this picture at all. Maybe it’s a mirror you can walk through, into a different world. I’ve read about them, but wouldn’t know how to make one work.

Mama uses furniture polish on all the furniture, and soon the whole upstairs smells like lemon furniture polish. Luckily, it covers the perfume smell. Next, Mama washes the windows till they’re all sparkling.

The doctor and his wife are away in Florida and won’t be home till next week. “So we have to make sure everything is ready for them,” Mama informs me. Ready for what? I think, but don’t ask.

I’m really tired. Mama must be more tired, because she works harder and faster than I do.

“Well, we’re through up here; next we’ll tackle the downstairs,” she says, which means I won’t get back up here again.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and I really do. “Which one can I use?”

“The small one, end of the hall, and don’t you dare get it dirty.”

I was hoping I m ight use the fancy one with the pink bathtub and gold swan faucets and pink toilet. I have never sat on a pink toilet before and just wanted to be alone in that room for a bit, with the door closed, so I could check out everything and walk on the soft fluffy bath mat.

“Can’t I use the pink bathroom?” I plead, “It has a stool I might need—”

Mama looks at me, then says, “Oh, all right, but don’t be in there too long. I’ll be wiping down the stair rails.”

I close the heavy door and I’m all alone in this bathroom that’s even bigger than my bedroom. The gold wallpaper has white swans on it, and the shower curtains too.

What must it be like to take a bath in this deep tub? I can see myself repeated in the mirrors hanging everywhere.

What’s in that decorated medicine cabinet? Does a doctor have more medicine than most people?

There’s a big scale like one we have at school. I want to weigh myself, but don’t know how to work the lever on the top.

I sit on the curved bench by the window that has criss-crosses of wood on its panes and opens outward. Quickly, I write down things in my tablet so I won’t forget them later.

I look at the garden below. There’s the pond where Mama says they keep big goldfish in the summer. Where do they go in winter?

There’s white metal garden furniture, and some big statues. It would be fun to play down there and explore everything. Maybe another time? Better do what I came to do.

I carefully use the toilet and one piece of pink toilet paper, then flush, making sure there’s no paper or anything left behind. Then I dance around on the fluffy rug and make a final bow in front of the big mirror, watching myself as I do it. Time to leave.

I open the door, making sure I don’t leave finger marks on the polished knob. I’m on my way downstairs, sticking that whole upstairs in the “special memories” section of my head. I’ll write more about it too, so I won’t forget how everything looked and felt.

Mama’s already in another room, pushing the upright vacuum cleaner, buzzing it over the thick purple and black oriental rug. The room appears shadowy, with brown wood paneling and darkish furniture, and no bright colors at all. The outside trees and bushes crowd the windows, blocking out the sunshine. Even though it’s a rich place, it seems so downcast, lifeless, and gloomy.

One whole wall, floor to ceiling, is filled with books, heavy and dark-looking ones. I wish I could peek at a few, but don’t want Mama catching me. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any books for children. They’re probably all about medicine. I never like looking through medicine books full of eeky pictures, sick body parts, and ugly skin things.

On the table, by the curved-out window, there’s a photo in a silver frame. I tiptoe over and see it’s the face of a little boy. I stand there, staring at his picture. I need to know more about him. Mama turns off the vacuum and comes over. I’m afraid she’s going to holler at me, but I have to ask.

“Who’s this picture of, Mama?”

“It’s—” She takes a deep breath. “That’s Danny, their son.”

“Their son? Where is he now? Why isn’t he living here?”

“Because—he died, that’s why. Many years ago. From pneumonia.”

“You mean doctors’ children get sick and die too?”

“Nobody escapes troubles, nobody.” She looks away. “That’s all I’m going to say about it. You can dust in here, windows, bookshelves, furniture, and all the corners too. And no more snooping.”

I work hard and fast, thinking about Danny all the time.

What he was like? Which room was his in this large house? Where did he go to school? What kind of toys did he have?

His face and eyes follow me all around, but they’re not scary, almost as if he wants to tell me things. I know he can’t, and know Mama won’t tell me any more. No wonder this house seems sad—all that money, and no children. No children at all, except one that’s dead.

Finally, Mama says, “Okay, Lulu, we can rest a little while we eat our lunch.” I didn’t know we got lunch here, or could even take a rest.

I follow Mama into a sunny room that’s all yellow and white. It’s a kitchen that’s big enough to dance in, with black and white squares on the floor.

“We’ll sit in the breakfast nook,” she says, pointing to a part of the kitchen that sticks out into the backyard. There’s a yellow wooden table with attached yellow benches, and windows on three sides. So, this is what a breakfast nook looks like, and I’m going to eat in one. I’m happy now; sunny yellow does that for me.

Mama opens the door of the big white Frigidaire. Cool air rushes out. “Where do they keep the ice?” I ask, peeking in at everything.

“It doesn’t need ice, it runs by electricity,” she answers. “It even makes ice.”

She shows me a tray with little cubes of ice in it, and a shelf with icy frozen food. “Let’s see what’s in here. Would you like a bottle of soda?”

I’m still thinking about how hot electricity can keep an icebox cold, but the word “soda” stops those thoughts.

“A bottle of soda—a whole bottle?” I want to make sure I heard right.

“Yes, a whole bottle. You’ve earned it. What about an orange, too?”

“They have oranges, even when it’s not Christmas time?”

“An orange a day is Dr. Mack’s motto.”

Our school health books always say children should have oranges and milk and other things. But our family doesn’t have them. Those health books seem to be more like make-believe stories, not about real children or real families. People in them look different too, not at all like Mama and Daddy.

“I’ll make some tea for myself,” Mama says, putting on the copper teakettle, then looking through the cupboards. “Here’s some crackers, and a little cheese left.”

I’m already drinking my red cherry soda through a long straw as I kneel on the nook bench. It’s delicious, and I sip it slowly so it lasts longer.

“For being so rich, they sure don’t have much food, do they?” I comment. This surprises me.

“They don’t eat at home as much anymore, not since they let Marie go.”

“Who’s Marie?”

“Their cook.”

“A cook? For just two people?”

“Yes. Marie was with them for a long time. But they had to let her go, even though they didn’t want to. Times are bad for everyone. So now they eat at the club most days.”

“What’s the club?” I’m eating cookies now from the shiny tin Mama got down from the high cupboard.

“The Country Club—”

“Is that in the country? Like where Uncle Steven and Auntie Ellen live?”

“No, it’s at the golf course.”

“Oh.” I don’t know much about golf courses, or the kinds of clubs they might have. “Cindy and I had a club once. A secret club and nobody else could join. Do you belong to a club, Mama? Maybe a secret one?”

“I don’t have time for clubs,” she says. Then, after thinking a bit, “Well, I do belong to the Christmas Club. It’s not secret, but—well, maybe it is.”

“What kind of club is the Christmas Club?” I’m really curious. Just then, the teakettle starts whistling and Mama jumps up.

“Time for tea,” she says, and I know the subject is closed. And if it’s a secret, Mama wouldn’t tell anyway.

I’m carefully peeling my orange, enjoying the sweet smell, savoring each juicy piece. “What else do we have to clean here?” I ask, hoping there’s not too much more. What if we have to clean the basement and garage too?

“Lots more to clean. We have the kitchen to scrub and wax, and the sunroom to clean—”

“But you still have some rest time, don’t you, Mama?” I’m looking at the big round clock on the shiny white tile wall. It’s almost one o’clock.

“A little, while I drink my tea, and eat my cheese and crackers. Maybe that last orange, too.”

I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for so long, a time alone with just Mama and me. Every day when I was home sick, I tried to ask her, but could never find the right moment, and Mama was always too busy. I have to do it now, here, with no others interrupting. I want Mama to tell me her story just one more time, in this different and remarkable place.

“Mama, can you tell me your Christmas story again? Please. About when you were a little orphan girl?”

“You kids have heard that story so many times.”

“But, I never hear it alone. Others are always butting in.”

“It’s not an easy story to tell.” She sips her tea. “No happy ending, either.”

“I don’t care. I like listening to your stories, Mama. They’re even better than those in books, and I can watch your eyes as you speak… Only, tell it right from the beginning. Don’t skip any parts.”

Mama is quiet for a bit, then begins telling me her Christmas story.