A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories

by Lucia Berlin

One morning at the laundry she gave me a key and I took it. She said that if I didn’t see her on Thursdays it meant she was dead and would I please go find her body. That was a terrible thing to ask of someone; also then I had to do my laundry on Thursdays.

They were all Catholic and had been together since kindergarten. To be fair, they were nice, normal children. I had been skipped in school, so was much younger, and had only lived in remote mining camps before the war. I didn’t know how to say things like “Do you enjoy studying the Belgian Congo?” or “What are your hobbies?” I would lurch up to them and blurt out “My uncle has a glass eye.”

My friends say I am wallowing in self-pity and remorse. Said I don’t see anybody anymore. When I smile, my hand goes involuntarily to my mouth. I collect sleeping pills. Once we made a pact … if things weren’t okay by 1976 we were going to have a shoot-out at the end of the Marina. You didn’t trust me, said I would shoot you first and run, or shoot myself first, whatever. I’m tired of the bargain, Ter.

(Cleaning women: Let them know you are thorough. The first day put all the furniture back wrong … five to ten inches off, or facing the wrong way. When you dust, reverse the Siamese cats, put the creamer to the left of the sugar. Change the toothbrushes all around.) My masterpiece in this area was when I cleaned the top of Mrs. Burke’s refrigerator. She sees everything, but if I hadn’t left the flashlight on she would have missed the fact that I scoured and re-oiled the waffle iron, mended the geisha girl, and washed the flashlight as well. Doing everything wrong not only reassures them you are thorough, it gives them a chance to be assertive and a “boss.” Most American women are very uncomfortable about having servants. They don’t know what to do while you are there.

I refused to identify your body, Ter, which caused a lot of hassle. I was afraid I would hit you for what you did. Died.