The Housewife(12)

A beat. She leans forward a little, like I’m hard of hearing. “It’s Marie. Meeerrrie, not Mary.”

I blink at her. We have this conversation often. “That’s what I said,” I say.

“No. You said ‘Mary.’”

“I said ‘Marie.’”

She shakes her head. “If you say so…”

I swallow a sigh. In truth, I don’t know why Marie has to be here at all. I cook and clean every inch of this place myself, using nontoxic, homemade, natural products. First and foremost, it’s my excuse to search the house, but let’s be honest, I love cleaning. It’s my happy place. So all Marie does, as far as I can tell, is come after me and dust the very places I’ve already dusted, and I hate that she uses and reuses a generic yellow duster. I told her once it just moves dust around. And it can scratch delicate surfaces. Also, it’s not hygienic to shove it under the sink and pull it out again the next day. So, she complained to Roy that I was “interfering with her chores,” and Roy had a word with me about letting Marie do the work she is paid to do.

“Even if she does it very badly?” I asked.

“That’s harsh, Jodie. Marie is an excellent housekeeper.”

So I let her make the beds and do the laundry and the ironing, although I like to refold the clothes she’s just folded, and sometimes when she’s out grocery shopping, I’ll iron them again.

I take a sip of coffee and put down the mug. “Would you like a chocolate chip cookie?” I say.

She looks at me, one eyebrow raised, like What now? “Excuse me?”

I open the cupboard and point. “I know you like to stock up on snacks, but they’re not very healthy, Marie. So I made some chocolate chip cookies and put them in there for you. I made them with oat flour and coconut sugar because it’s much better for you. I can make some more if you like. Or something else. I guess what I’m trying to say is, you don’t need to stock up on all that junk food. Just tell me what you like and I’ll make it for you.”

She looks at me like I’ve just grown a cauliflower on my head. “I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

“Your stash,” I say, tilting my head at the shelf.

“Those are not mine,” she says.

“Aren’t they?”

“No, they belong—belonged to Mrs. Deborah. She always had a shelf full of snacks.”

It’s like I’ve been hit in the solar plexus. “They belonged to Deb—Deborah? ”

“Yes.”

The back of my eyes burn. I stare at the shelf and put my hand in there slowly. I touch the packet of Oreos and let out a chuckle. Marie looks up at me.

“Do you want me to throw them out?” she asks dully.

“No!” I say quickly. “No. That’s all right. Let’s leave them for now.”

I smile as I close the cupboard door, then sit back at the kitchen counter with my coffee. “Can I ask you…”

She looks at me, eyebrows raised. She really has beautiful eyebrows. Dark and well-defined.

“Yes?”

“Did Roy and Deborah ever argue?”

“Never. I never heard Mrs. Deborah raise her voice at Dr. Davies. She had no reason to. He adored her so much.”

I nod, like that makes total sense.

“Was there anything else?” she says.

I rest my chin in my hand. “Why is it you call Deborah ‘Mrs. Deborah,’ but you call me ‘Mrs. Davies’?”

“Mrs. Deborah insisted. ‘I’m just like you, Marie,’ she’d say. ‘I’m nothing special.’ She wanted me to call her simply ‘Deborah’ but I couldn’t. That felt too far.”

She folds her shopping bag and smooths its creases. “She was so lovely and kind, Mrs. Deborah, never putting on airs, never looking down on anyone. Everybody loved her and especially Dr. Davies. I know you don’t want to hear this, Mrs. Davies, but he really did. You could see it in his face whenever she walked into the room. Now if that’s all… ”

“You could call me Jodie if you wanted.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“You don’t like me much, do you.” I said this to Roy once: “I don’t think Marie likes me much.”

“That’s because she adored Deborah,” he said. “She was devoted to her.”

Well, that part is clear. She always says things like, “Mrs. Deborah would never… Mrs. Deborah wore it so well… You should have seen the dinner parties Mrs. Deborah threw!” She reminds me of this movie I saw once, called Rebecca, with the crazy housekeeper who goes mad with grief when Rebecca dies and sets the house on fire. Roy gave Deborah’s things away—except for her wedding dress, which is under a sheath of silk in his closet, not weird at all—because they were too painful for him to keep around, which is just as well because otherwise I would not be surprised to find various shrines to Deborah around the place.

“I don’t have to like you, Mrs. Davies. I’m not paid to like you.”

“You do if you live here and work for us,” I say.

“Us?” She curls up her top lip and looks down at me. “You won’t be here much longer, Mrs. Davies. I assure you. My not liking you won’t be a problem for long. Not for me, anyway.”