A Slow Boil Read Free Page A

into the kitchen and Mrs. Sheridan showed me a slim
binder that outlined which days I was to do perform which task.  The
laundry and dinner would be the two things I would do every day.  Other
than that, each day had its own assigned task.  On Mondays I would dust
the entire house.  Tuesday was vacuuming day.  Wednesday was the day
I'd clean the office.  Thursdays I'd sweep and mop all the wood and tile
floors, and Fridays were the days I'd do the bathrooms plus any incidentals Mr.
Hunter wanted completed at the end of the week.
    “Let me show you the utility closet.”  She led me to a door
that opened to a descending stairway.  As we headed downstairs, she
reassured me that Mr. Hunter was a perfectly reasonable employer as long as I
completed the work.  Even though they were alone together in the house
most afternoons, she rarely saw him, even more rarely spoke to him.  The
key to success, she'd figured out, was silence. “He really values that above
all else.  If you can be quiet, no matter what you're doing, he'll be
happy with the results.”
    “Okay, but how am I supposed to vacuum silently?”
    Opening the door to a walk-in closet full of cleaning equipment,
she pointed to a fancy looking contraption.  “This vacuum cleaner is a new
model, state-of-the-art, from Europe.  It barely makes a sound.”
    “That's amazing.  But what about when I'm fixing dinner? When
the Cuisinart is running, the exhaust fan is blowing, the coffee beans are
grinding?  How am I supposed to do those things silently?”
    “I didn't show you when we were in the kitchen, but there's a
sliding door that you can pull closed and it seems to work effectively.  I
never heard any complaints from Mr. Hunter, so I assume it works.”
    Then she led me to the laundry room which was also in the
basement, and showed me how to work the machines.  She reiterated that Mr.
Hunter liked his laundry washed daily, even if there wasn't much.
    “Where do I find his dirty clothes and what do I do with his
laundry when it's done?”
    “That’s next,” she nodded. “Let me show his room.”
    She led me up three flights of stairs to the top floor of the
house.
    “All of these rooms are unused unless Mr. Hunter has
company.  But this is his room right here.” She stopped and pushed open
the door.  To say that entering Mr. Hunter's inner sanctum felt like an
invasion of privacy was an understatement.  While his office had been
barren of personal affects, this room was a testament to the man's inner self.
The bed was huge and prominent, covered in a deep red silk.  Paintings
took up all available wall space.  The dresser was overflowing with
photographs, so many that even more had been pushed up into the frame of the
mirror suspended above it.
    “Where do I put his clothes?” I asked quietly as I pulled myself
away from a particularly fetching photograph of a young tow-headed boy on a
swing.
    “His boxers and t-shirts go in this drawer.  His socks
here.  Jeans here.  Dress clothes go in the closet on hangers. 
Put newly laundered clothes on the bottom of the pile so that he's always
drawing on the oldest washed.  Make sense?”
    “Yes. Perfect sense.”  Then I couldn't help myself and I
gestured to all the photographs on the dresser.  “Who are all these
people?”
    “Mr. Hunter's family.  You might get to meet them if they
visit again this summer, although I'm not sure they enjoyed themselves last
year.”  She stopped herself, realizing she was on the verge of gossiping
about her employer, and quickly changed the subject.  “The hamper is in
his bathroom – that's where you'll find his dirty clothes and towels.  And
he likes fresh sheets on his bed once a week.  I usually change them on Fridays
when I'm up here cleaning his bathroom.  The linen closet's here.”
    We walked back into the hallway.  “I think that's about
it.  I'll give you a key to the back entrance and then we're done, unless
you have any more