Nine Women by Shirley Ann Grau

clearly understood.
    “Mrs. Emmons,” he said to me the very first time I went there—almost but not quite inside the front door, he was waiting for me on the porch—“you are on time to the minute, I admire that.” He waved me to a cane rocking chair. (It was one of those screen porches with rockers and plant stands full of ferns and a ceiling fan turning slowly.) “I should like you to come at ten and leave at two or earlier, if possible. Please do not play the radio. The only television in the house is a single black and white set which is tuned to my evening news station. It is so very small it can hardly tempt you to turn it on. Please do not whistle or sing at your work. That was splendid for Snow White, but I do not think it is suitable for this house.”
    I sat in his rocker. And looked around. The porch was spotless, not even a speck of dust on the shiny glass tabletop, though it was a dry summer and fine blowing haze hung all day in the air. He must have wiped it clean just before I came.
    And I, to use his words, admire that. To have things neat for the housekeeper to start off—yes, I did like that.
    There was a large nest of mud daubers building in the outside corner of the porch. I pointed to it. “You should do something about that. They’ll be inside pretty soon, you know.”
    “I am very allergic to stings,” he said, scarcely looking at it.
    “I’ll take care of it with a spray can.”
    He nodded.
    I realized then that we were talking as if I had the job already. As if he’d asked me, which he hadn’t, and I’d accepted, which I hadn’t either.
    “And of course,” he said, “you will have to wear other shoes.”
    I looked at my feet: black oxfords, the most comfortable shoes in the world.
    “They have crepe soles,” he said. “I do not like people to walk silently.”
    “Well,” I said slowly, “most people prefer the quiet.”
    He shook his head violently.
    “All right,” I said.
    I tried for a week. My bunions burned and my spine ached, and I went back to my rubber-soled shoes. He was upset all right. I had to tell him I couldn’t work otherwise—anyway, he gave up about the shoes. Eventually I thought of a solution. Years ago, when I was a girl, we all wore charm bracelets with dozens of odd shapes dangling and rattling. I hunted up my bracelet—took me a while to find it—and wore it to work every day. I felt like one of those fat pet cats who wear silver bells to warn away birds. But it satisfied him.
    Months later, out of the blue, he said, “You know, I’ve grown to like the sound of your bracelet.”
    “I’m reliving my youth,” I said. “This thimble, see, that’s my tenth birthday, and the bell was my fourteenth. My husband brought me that Eiffel Tower from Paris when he came back after the war.”
    By that time, Dr. Hollisher had walked away. He could never manage to listen or say more than a dozen words before hurrying off with a busy distracted air. Like a man who has more to do than he will ever manage. In truth, of course, he had nothing to do but amuse himself and all day to do it in.
    Still the sound of the silver was bright and cheery. And the memories kept me from being bored. After a while, though I was doing the work (I suppose I was doing it properly; he never complained), I wasn’t there at all, not in the house on Indian Head Bay. I was years away. I even found I liked thinking about the past. I’d never done that before. All my attention had been needed in each and every day, first with the children and then Ed, my husband, and his illness. In a way the past was like that bracelet, locked up in a drawer, unnoticed and unthought about.
    So, one by one, I remembered all the times suspended there in silver links. Birthdays and parties when I was young. A peach chiffon dress, ankle-length with a ruffle at the hem. Rooms that were filled with giggles and the funny smells of children, a little like wet puppies, a little like fresh bread.
    That