I stood by the wall in Mrs. Grave�s library for almost an hour before Janis arrived. Janis looked Italian, though there was a hint of an English accent when she spoke. Her dark hair was up in a bun, protected by a fluffy white hat that nearly covered her whole head. An attractive girl, I found myself instantly wondering why she�d not run off to the city and married well. Then I remembered how rumor had it that Mrs. Graves had a hard time keeping servants, and it became even harder to imagine such a nice looking woman in her employ. She had a black dress that was knee length, with white stockings and a lace trimmed apron, so I guessed she was a little on display. Though I doubted she was more than twenty-five, I soon learned that she had more experience than the other maid that I�d seen by the back door.



�Madam Graves has told me that you have joined my staff. I�d prefer that you just call me Janet. I don�t want to be too formal, because there are just the three of us for the household, but it is important that you gain some insight into how we manage. Consequently, madam has indicated to me that you are to follow my instruction; as she said, �to the letter,�� was her introduction.



�Yes, Janet. This is embarrassing. I�m sorry,� I said, feeling stupid in my outfit.



�I suppose so. I have no idea why you�ve chosen this line of work, or why madam has decided to let you work here, but we are overworked, so I�m reserving my judgment. I personally have no use for gay men. I just thought you should know. It�s just my point of view,� chaffed Janet.



�I�m not gay. Really,� I told her.



�OK,� she said, as if she�d decided it was none of her business. �There�s work in the kitchen. That�s where it�s probably best to start. You can get acquainted with our cook, Mrs. Cavindish. You might already know her; she�s local,� explained Janet. Madam met her at a church function, and sent her to cook school a couple years back. She does an excellent job, and I might add that when in the kitchen, she has the last say; even to me, though the reverse is true in the main house.�



Cavindish? I knew that name, I kept thinking as I was marched through the house behind Janet. At one room, we passed the third maid as she stacked table linen in a closet area. I recognized her legs from the back door, and then noticed her face. She smiled acceptingly enough, but with a tooth crooked from an early lack of braces. �Buenos dias,� she said quietly, indicating her origin. Then I found myself back in the kitchen, near where I�d come into the house. I�d not had the nerve to look up at the cook then, but now I felt I had to.



�Hi Joe,� said Mrs. Cavindish from the large cutting table where she was peeling shrimp. I instantly recognized the middle aged lady�s face. Her husband owned a small, but nearly customerless feed store near the other side of town. I�d worked with him during harvest on a number of jobs too. I doubted that he made much more money than I did, or had, I realized. I was periodically imagining what three dollars a week felt like on payday. Of course, the poverty was a fleeting side thought, my face going red, all the adjustment apparently reversed, knowing that by evening Mrs. Cavindish would have started the rumor mill that would ruin me in this town forever.



�Hi,� was all I could manage to say.



�Madam Graves has decided that . Miss Jo . is to help you when needed. Otherwise . she . is to clean the garage. Maria has been lent to help me on a more regular basis. God knows the place needs a good thorough cleaning. I�m sorry to dump him . oh, for crying out loud . her on you like this .�



�It�s OK. I can manage with him,� interrupted Mrs. Cavindish, trying to let Janet know she didn�t have to make an apology. �Go take out the trash, Joe. Be sure to hose and scrub it well back from the house. The plastic bags are in the metal cabinet in the room just off from the entranceway.�



�Thanks. And, Mrs. Graves was insistent that we call him a her,� added Janet, as she walked away.



�I�ll do no such thing. I�m a religious woman, and she can�t make me a part of her monkey business,� said Mrs. Cavindish in Janet�s wake. I doubted that Janet heard the last of her two sentences, but I was wondering if that meant I had an ally or an eye of disapproval in the cook. I decided on maybe both, though at the time mostly I was just in the business of being embarrassed. �Well go to it,� said Mrs. Cavindish, as I stood there frozen. She pointed to a trash can. �This first. The household trash is in the same room as the bags. Might as well tend to that while your at it,� she added, apparently used to having one of the maids at her beck and call.



I grabbed the kitchen trash container, and soon found myself out the back door. The first thing I did was look around for someone who might see me. The town was mostly a one street affair out on this end of it, and so Mrs. Grave�s house had a huge back yard with a garden for flowers and another for vegetables behind that. I would guess it a good four acres, maybe half planted and the rest manicured to the point of resembling a decent golfing green. Beyond was forest. I had hunted in that forest a lot, it being the same one that backed my own house a couple blocks south. It extended clear to the mines on the county line. Mrs. Graves had a neat row of white painted garbage containers on the far side of that massive garage, which I timidly stepped towards with my load.



A perfectly trimmed set of stones led to the driveway, Ying off where it made a path around to the back of the garage; the steps on the house side of the garage. That led to a small row of connected cottages that could only be seen from the woods. I remember having seen them first as a child, at first imagining myself looking at a small motel, but then seeing them as the slave�s quarters. Knowing my town history better with age, I�ve learned that, that is exactly what they�d been, though they�d been substantially upgraded since then with plank siding that sported thick layers of uneven, but bright white paint and an air conditioner leaning out of one, attesting to some improvements.



I poured the trash into the bigger container, being careful not to make too much noise, and draw attention, though the privacy fence separated me from view on that side of the house, and the driveway was almost a winding block long. I followed the hose back to a spigot on the first slave apartment. There was a plastic bucket with a brush, which I used to clean out the trash can, though it was hardly dirty, having been lined with a plastic bag. I set the can upside down beside the house, and got the second one, finding a towel inside the little room where the liners were.



Things were falling into place as I worked, helping me lose a few butterflies, though I still glanced around every few seconds as I labored, afraid I�d draw an eye. I was constantly aware of my dress and apron, the way they waved back and forth under my work, and how I had to keep them clear in order to avoid getting too wet. My padded bra was also a distraction, and for a second I found myself getting an erection, remembering the fatal fantasy that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.



The best view to the back yard seemed to be from the direction of my own house, two blocks away; separated by a mere field. I knew those people well down there. The closest house was only a hundred yards away. Occasionally I�d see someone moving in a back yard or on the street; always someone I recognized simply by the way they walked. I could even see the back bumper of Angie�s car, the rest of it shielded by the houses between here and there. I knew that if someone looked my way they�d not be close enough to tell much. Strangely, knowing that I could still see home made me fell like all was not lost, like this was all temporary, and all I really needed to do was wait until dark, and sneak across the fence. On the other hand, it made me constantly aware that any contact would prove very embarrassing.



The more I thought about it, the more I wondered how committed Angie was to this thing. Maybe by tonight she would miss me, I was hoping. The contracts were probably just some kind of joke, I thought, though the more I thought about that the more I couldn�t fit all the details together into a joke. She was divorcing me. I�d called that damned evasive lawyer myself. Then there were the two contracts with Mrs. Graves, not the joking kind, from what I�d known of her, all of my life incidentally. To make matters even less hopeful, everyone knew Mrs. Graves had, had trouble finding help that could stomach her demanding nature, and those contracts seemed a perfect remedy, strange as it all was. Of course there was the issue of money in there too. Mrs. Graves would never fool around when it came to financial arrangements; no rich bastard ever did, my poor boy training had always �learned� me. I stood up from bending over the last trash can, and rinsed, imagining that this was real, unending, my life from now on. Again my cock started to rise, prompting me to say, �Fuck you,� to it, though I doubt it was listening to reason; it never had.



�You sure took long enough. Go wash your hands, Joe. I need you to peel some potatoes, and then clean up under the stove and refrigerator before you start in the garage. It�s been awhile since Mister Beacon was here to help me move it so I could get under it,� said Mrs. Cavindish as soon as I walked in with the relined trash can.



�Mister Beacon?�



�The gardener. He quit last month. Mrs. Graves is fine to work for if you mind your business, but most men aren�t too good at taking direction from an older lady who�s been used to tellin. Only been two men ever work here, from what I can tell. Well, three now, I guess; sort a�.�



I took some ornaments off the refrigerator, moved it before getting on my knees and accepting a rag that Mrs. Cavindish held out for me. �You mean there are no men working here, Mrs. Cavindish?�



�Just me, the two maids and that�s it. Good thing Mrs. Graves is only one woman, or we�d be swamped. This place has twenty-seven rooms. Big rooms too, and the madam insists upon every one of them being at least dusted and swept twice a week. She�s set in her ways, and ain�t none of my business anyway. So, how did you manage to get all made up homosexual, Joe?� Mrs. Cavindish finally got to.



I looked up at her legs, a bit taken back, and regaining my butterflies. �My wife kind of plotted on me. I was thinking kinky, and she was being serious. Next thing you know, I�ve signed these contracts, divorce, real life service contract like a contractor signs, financial leans. I�m stuck.�



�Is that legal?� Asked Mrs. Cavindish.



�Seems like it was, though hell if I know. The basic bottom line doesn�t seem like it can be. She had a lawyer writing it all up though; a Mister Smithers.�



�No cussing in my kitchen, OK Joe. I heard of Mister Smithers. Mrs. Graves uses him. My sister did too; had a will done by him. He�s over in Fayette. Good enough man. My sis said he had all kinds of degrees on his wall; even ran for office once. I�d be guessing real bad it�s legal if he had his hands on it. Too bad. You�ll adjust though. Just keep the Lord in your heart, Joe, and don�t let any of them gay thoughts out of your head. It�s not so much what you�re thinking as it is what you do about it. God can heal you from those thoughts, but the devil will always be itching on you. Mrs. Graves has one foot in the din of iniquity for playing you this way, I�d say from the looks of it, though she has her reasons I guess. Maybe it�s for the best that you got steered in here anyway, cause you�re safe from temptation in this house with all us women. Can you get the stove next. That�s a good help.�



I had this sinking feeling in my gut just listening to Mrs. Cavindish. I mean, she was so Jesus plain and conservative, and somehow had lollygaged her way around to pegging my condition with nothing more than a few religious sidebars ripped out of a concordance. Just don�t, �act,� gay, she kept harping, as if I were Jeremiad in the wilderness, and the only thing I really had to worry about was yielding to the devil over a detail - never mind the wilderness part; me out here without a canteen. By the time I got to the garage with a handful of rags, cleaners and buckets, I was almost happy to be alone. Mrs. Cavindish had nice talked me into a whole new kind of funk.