Her face so thin, so white. Tired, very tired. So it probably wouldn’t be a good day.
Midred resolved to try to get her out of the house a bit-a drive to Huntington Gardens? Last month the two of them had spent a glorious hour strolling at the missus’s snail’s pace. A week later Mildred had suggested they repeat it, perhaps the art gallery, but the missus demurred. Maybe another time, dear.
Once upon a time, a driver had wheeled the Cadillac and the Lincoln. The Cadillac was gone; Mildred wrestled with the Lincoln.. how much petrol was in the tank?
If not a drive, at least a stroll out in back, some fresh air. Maybe after lunch.
“Here’s some breakfast for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mildred.” Saying it automatically, so politely that Mildred knew the missus wasn’t hungry, probably wouldn’t touch a thing.
The body needed sustenance. That was simple logic. Yet, despite all her education, the college degree from Wellesley-the finest women’s school in America-the missus sometimes seemed unaware of the basics. During those moments, Mildred felt she was the older sister, caring for a child.
“You do need to eat, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mildred. I’ll do my best.”
Mildred put the food down, drew the drapes, fetched the bed tray, and set it up. She noticed a kink in the drapery pleats, straightened it, and looked out the window. The blue-tiled pool that him had modeled after Mr. Hearst’s at San Simeon was empty and streaked with brown. The boxwood knot garden-too painful to see. Mildred looked away but not before being assaulted by a distant view of downtown Los Angeles. All that steel and glass, hideous from up close, but this far perhaps it did have a certain… stature.
When she turned fully, the missus was wiping her eyes.
Crying? Mildred hadn’t heard a sniffle.
The missus pulled a tissue out of the porcelain box and blew her nose inaudibly. Another cold? Or had she been crying?
“Here you go, ma’am, toast just the way you like it.”
“Forgive me, Mildred, it’s a beautiful breakfast but… maybe in a bit, please leave it.”
“Some coffee to stimulate the appetite, ma’am?”
The missus started to refuse, then said, “Yes, please.”
Mildred took hold of the cozy-wrapped pitcher and directed an ebony stream into the Royal Worcester cup. The missus lifted the coffee. Her hands were shaking so, she needed both to keep it steady.
“What’s the matter, ma’am?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine, Mildred-what a beautiful rose.”
“Giant blossoms this year, ma’am. It’s going to be a good year for roses.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will… thank you for going to the trouble.”
“No trouble at all, ma’am.”
The same dialogue they exchanged every morning. Hundreds of mornings. A ritual but not a formality, because the missus’s gratitude was genuine, she was gracious as royalty-more gracious. Look what royalty had become! It was hard to think of her as an American. More of an… international.
The missus reached for another tissue and patted her eyes. Mildred picked up the first tissue, dropping it in the Venetian wastebasket beneath the end table, noticed something in there.
A newspaper. Today’s!
“I got up very early and brought it up, Mildred-don’t be cross.”
“Early, ma’am?” Mildred had been up at six, taking her own bath, ten minutes of secret bubbles, ten minutes later. She hadn’t heard a thing-the missus’s escape concealed by running water!
“I went outside to check the trees. All those winds-the Santa Anas we had last night.”
“I see, ma’am.”
“Oh, Mildred, it’s fine.” The soft eyes blinked.
Mildred crossed her arms over her apron. “How early is early, ma’am?”
“I don’t really know, dear-six, six-thirty. I suppose I went to sleep too early and my rhythm was off.”
“Very well,” said Mildred. “Would you be wanting anything else, ma’am?”
“No thank you, dear.” Now the missus’s hands were shaking again. Holding tight to the covers. Smiling, but it looked forced. Mildred prayed it wasn’t another downturn. She looked down at the newspaper.
“You can take it,” said the missus. “If you want to read it.”
Mildred folded the horrid thing under her arm. Read it, indeed! She’d throw it out with the kitchen trash.
CHAPTER
42
When the lock clicked on the back door to the Jewish church, my brain froze and I couldn’t move.
What would the Jews do to me? Now I was finished.
As the back door opened, I jumped under the big table, crawled into the cabinet, and closed the door quietly. I could hear footsteps from inside.
Just one person walking-yes, just one.
The cabinet was empty and smelled of wood and old clothes. My mouth tasted of crackers and fear. I pushed myself into a corner and didn’t move. Praying whoever was in here wouldn’t open the doors.
The sign said no prayers till tomorrow; did the Jews have secret prayers?
Whoever it was out there walked around, stopped, walked some more.
Now he was close to me. If he did open the cabinet, I’d jump out, I’d scream like a maniac, surprise him and escape.
Escape, how? Not through the back door, unless he’d left it unlocked.
The front-could you open it from inside? The bathroom window again-that would take time. My stomach started to hurt really bad. I felt like I was being suffocated.
I didn’t even do anything really wrong-just ate some of their food, and it wasn’t that good. Crackers with an onion taste, some butterfly-shaped cookies that were stale.
I didn’t even mess with the silver bottle with the Jewish star on it, just shook it to see what would fall out. Even though the lock looked dinky. I thought about breaking it, but the bottle looked nice and I didn’t want to damage it.
This was a Jewish place, but it was still a church, so maybe God was here, too.
I’d tell him all that if he caught me.
No I wouldn’t, I’d yell and scream and run to the bathroom, lock myself in, get that window up.
I remembered what Moron said about Jews being out to kill Christians… that’s got to be crazy, but what if…
Now he’s farther away. Back and forth, back and forth-what’s he doing?
Uh-oh, he’s coming closer again. I hear rattling-he’s shaking the silver bottle. Now it sounds like he’s scraping the top of the table-probably cleaning up the cracker crumbs… now he walks away. Maybe he’ll see no one stole anything and just leave Now he’s walking back The door opens.
I don’t jump out and yell.
I just push myself harder into the corner.
A face stares at me. An old face, kind of fat. Glasses with thick black frames, a big nose, red, kind of big ears.
A funny-looking old guy. He steps back. He’s wearing old guy’s clothes: a white shirt and baggy light blue pants and one of those zippered tan jackets. His fingers are really thick and his hands look too big for the rest of him.
He doesn’t look mad. More surprised. I keep pushing myself into the corner. The wood is hard against my back and my butt, but I can’t stop pushing.
He steps back some more, says, “It’s okay,” in a deep grumbly voice.
