By the time I was half done with the garage work my grey maid outfit was almost black. I didn�t think it likely that my apron would be white again. The fact that it was the only outfit I had was starting to worry me a bit. I ached everywhere, inside, out, everywhere, not at all recovered from the horrible night before, and unused to the constant physical labor of maid duties. They�d picked the hard jobs for me, probably because there had been no men around to get to certain things in some time, or maybe because Mrs. Graves wanted me to get a feel for what she expected. There were three cars in the garage, one an old Bentley that still ran like 1930. Mrs. Cavindish had come to the door and handed me the keys one at a time so I could back the cars out instead of working cleaning the rafters over them.



I doubt they keep cars as polished in the showroom as Mrs. Graves kept hers in her garage. I remember sitting in that Bentley though, backing it out a few feet and looking up at the house windows to see if anyone was watching me. The thought of taking off for Mexico did hit me hard. Of course I�d have never made it; a Bentley does tend to stand out - almost as much as a man with pink cheeks, red lips and in a maid outfit. Besides, the tank was only a quarter full, and Mexico was maybe twenty tank fulls away for this gas guzzler. I was flat broke; the dress had one empty pocket, big enough for maybe a little change - should I be stupid enough to be able to steal some. I could just see myself in Nogalas too, standing out on one of those dirt streets in front of a dollar a drink bar, starving, flat broke, and like I said, wearing a dress. I�d been to Mexico once with buddies, and left the only one smart enough to not get the clap off a five dollar whore. Clap or not, those whores had looked a lot better than I did. I was thinking I�d be worth maybe a dime in a really dark room, and stopped the car in the driveway, my pantied ass going back to my work.



Mrs. Cavindish came out with some peanut butter sandwiches and milk. Since my wife had started her dastardly scheme on me I�d lost thirty pounds. I�d not eaten in over a day either, but had been too nervous to consider eating. As soon as I started eating though, I remembered that I had an appetite. My hands were dirty, but I didn�t mind. Mrs. Cavindish had been making shrimp, maybe for later. I�d die for a shrimp, I was thinking. She�d been making the big ones, the kind they don�t put out in the store; the kind that took six bites to eat, almost like lobster tail. My mind got lost thinking about expensive fish food. I guess I�d been poor too long, and starved too much too, because it was all I could think about as I worked, imagining it would all be worth it for the feast Mrs. Cavindish was cooking up in that kitchen.



�yoo hoo!� said a woman�s voice that startled me. I was up on a ladder, doing rafters, and had to bend down to see who it was. Janet was sitting on the back porch step taking a break. Maria was sitting beside her, smoking. I stood up, somehow embarrassed to be seen by the women who�d already seen me. I could hear them laughing as I buried my head in the rafters, continuing my work. When I came down to move the ladder, Maria said, �you doing mucho buino,� with a heavy Latin accent, as I looked around. They sat there for awhile, and then both broke down laughing after ten seconds of forced straight face. I turned away, and felt the tears come, but managed to get back up to a new set of rafters before they could see me. I took my time, so the next time I moved they were gone back inside. I was a freak. I was pathetic. I hated myself. God I was fucking miserable. When I finished my job in the garage, I put the cars back, hosed myself off, and sat down on the steps, unable to move. I could smell the smell of cooked shrimp fading, but had lost my appetite to depression. The sun died, just like another wasted day in my life. After that I sat like that for about an hour, staring into the woods, daring some imagined kid like my former self to come out of them and start laughing at me.



�Hey, we�re sorry,� said a voice just inside the door. I could tell by the voice that it was Maria. I looked around at her. �Madam Graves say I should show you to your room. She say you�re staying. You no have to be so upset. We were just playing.�



�It�s OK,� was all I could manage, well past realizing that I was laughable. I was staying, she�d said; Maria must have been the last to know. I got up and followed her through the back yard, my legs having grown stiff. As I walked, I looked over at the houses across the field, feeling the pull of home. Lights were going on, and I could even see the blue glow of the Wittiker�s television out of a side window. No use tormenting myself, I kept saying over and over in my mind. I looked back at Maria instead, finding myself admiring her butt as it swayed beautifully in her maid outfit, the seamed stockings and the white tie of the apron almost a classical wet dream. It took me about a second to realize that she was leading me back to the slave quarters. I suppose they call it servant�s quarters in modern times, but considering my predicament, and three bucks a week, I found the word slave more than proper.



From the front I could tell that the first room was biggest, maybe two rooms, and the second, second biggest. The last two were a good two feet narrower than the second one. Maria pointed to the second door. �This my place. Miss Janet has the one there, but she live in house some nights. You stay here. Not bad. You like the night here. Very quiet. Lots of stars like Mexico. Maybe we sit on lawn and talk some time. I tell you about Mexico, and you feel better.� I nodded as she let me into cabin three with a key that she put on the dresser as soon as we squeezed through the door.



She hit the light switch, illuminating a table lamp. �Wow!� She said, flying her hands at me, telling me I looked and smelled a mess. I ignored her because it wasn�t news. I�d been right to think of the place like a really cheap motel room. There was a bed in the middle, a table with two chairs on the far side where the lamp was, a low dresser by the door, and another table with two small drawers up in front of the bed. A walk in bathroom held a shower, toilet and sink. I imagined cabin four was a duplicate of this one in reverse. A radiator fed heat, though I remembered that air conditioner, my mind placing it at cabin one. I had a twenty dollar radio which I hoped worked. The best part of the room was the window that was aimed at the row of houses I�d spent the first three decades living in. On second thought, maybe that wasn�t a good thing, I told myself, realizing that it would be a constant source of torment. I pulled the slit between the curtains shut.



�You like?� Maria needed some reassurance. She�d been kind to me, and genuinely sorry for laughing at me, so I felt I owed her.



�I like. Very nice. I�d love to talk with you, on the lawn. But, not tonight. I don�t think I have enough energy or flexibility to get past the shower and bed.�



�OK then. I have new uniforms for you in the morning. Mrs. Graves say you can sleep until eight so I can get clothes ready for you. She very happy you here to help. I wake you up, and give uniforms, so you not worry about much. You new here, so we help. Janet sorry too, you know. She not going to tell you that, but she not want Mrs. Graves to think she make you run away,� said Maria.



I was starting to see a whole new set of interactions; where everyone fit in. Why was Mrs. Graves so worried that I�d run away? Could I run away? I mean, why not? Slavery was illegal. If a person called the cops and said, �Gee, my slave has run away, can you call out the bloodhounds and catch him,� what would the cops say? They�d say, �Listen lady. Slavery is illegal in America. Maybe we should call you in for questioning?�



�Yeah. That will be great. I need new clothes. This is filthy,� I told Maria. Maria turned to leave, apparently pleased that I�d gotten over my deep depression caused by her and Janet�s teasing. �Oh, one more thing.� Maria turned around just outside the door. �I was wondering if there was any of that shrimp left over from dinner?�



�Shrimp? Oh, si. Mrs. Graves have shrimp. Sometime Mrs. Cavindish save some for us, but we not supposed to eat Mrs. Graves�s food. She very rich woman. Mrs. Cavindish not have any shrimp for us tonight though. Mrs. Graves eat last one. Maybe when she have big party. I always like Mrs. Cavindish�s kitchen when big party over,� she said, walking away and leaving an open door. I was stunned. What had she said? That Mrs. Graves ate the good food, and left us with peanut butter sandwiches? That�s fucking crazy, I told myself, my stomach rumbling again. I felt a headache coming on, and fumbled through the drawers, thankful for finding a bottle of aspirin. Maybe I should take it all, I thought, before downing a couple and peeling the clothing off my back so I could lavish in a half hour shower.