Abruptly, the door swung open, and Uma found herself on the floor, sprawled gracelessly at the slippered feet of her new employer.
“Jane Smith, hmm?”
“Actually, I go by Crane. It’s, uh, Uma Crane.”
“No kidding. Well, don’t just lie there. Come inside before you let all the heat out.”The heat?It must’ve been eighty degrees outside.
Uma took her first good look at her new employer. Even from her vantage point on the floor, it was obvious that the woman was short, almost perfectly round, as wide as she was tall, and Uma was willing to bet she couldn’t fit through a doorway straight on. Coke-bottle lenses gave her dark eyes an owlish quality, which, when fixed on Uma, was rather disconcerting. An extreme case of helmet hair—round, glossy, and black—and a dark wooden cane completed the look. Uma had the distinct impression that she’d fallen straight into a spider’s web.
Old hag in need of live-in helper to abuse. Nothing kinky.
I won’t let her hurt me, she decided in that moment.No way will she walk all over me.
“It looks like I’m your new live-in helper.” She forced a goofy smile. “I guess that makes you the old hag.”
The woman’s eyes opened even wider, then narrowed to slits. “If you want your purse, you’d best take it now, else it’ll stay outside.” Uma rose and barely managed to snag her bag before the woman slammed the door and locked it with a definitive series ofthunk-clicks. Four times she locked it, followed by a belated fifth.
Uma was inside. It should have been comforting, the knowledge that she was locked away, safely hidden. So why did she feel as though she’d jumped from the fire right back into the frying pan?
* * *
Ms. Lloyd’s house was like the Land Where Time Had Stopped. It owed its decor almost entirely to Laura Ashley, circa 1986. It was okay, if a little…still. As though nothing could move within its confines. Stale, close air where not even the dust dared to fly.
Someone had clearly cared about decorating once upon a time but lacked either the desire or the resources to keep it up-to-date. The result was like one of those time capsules. The furniture looked cared for but worn and had no doubt been the height of middle-class fashion in its day. The tables were dark wood, and the carpeting must once have been white or cream. Today it was the color of a tan Band-Aid. The only new thing in the place was the television. A ridiculously wide flat-screen dominated the living room, managing, through its sleek simplicity, to look almost like a piece of modern art.
As she took it all in, breathing the musty smell of a house long kept closed, the woman’s big, black eyes followed her. “You look older than twenty-six.” Charming. Her voice was high, girlish. It didn’t match her dark looks. “And you’re late, Irma.”
“It’s Uma.”
“You’re late.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” Uma took a breath, determined not to let her new boss cow her. “You must not have heard me knock the first time. I went around to see if you were in back.”
“Is that what they call it nowadays?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Flirtin’. I saw you over there with my neighbor,” she said, her gaze swiping up and down Uma’s body one time. “I know your type.”
Hertype? On this unseasonably sticky October day, Uma must have been the only person for miles whose body was covered from head to toe. She wore jeans and a dark, long-sleeved, cotton shirt, a scarf tied around her neck. In fact, the only person she’d seen showing less skin was standing in front of her.
Their outfits were embarrassingly similar.
“What can I do to get started?” Uma asked, choosing to ignore the woman’s vitriol.I’m stronger than you, she thought, hoping it was true.
“You can start by making me dinner. I’ve been half-starved here waitin’ for you. As I told you on the phone: you cook, you clean, you shop, you run my errands. I pay you every week the first month, then every other week after that. If I decide to keep you on.” Ms. Lloyd pursed her lips and squinted at Uma as if she found the notion highly unlikely. “No phone calls, no men. No back talk.”
Silently, Uma followed the woman’s slow limp into the kitchen, where dishes overflowed the double sink and big, brown stains spread across the white linoleum floor.
“You talk, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you understand the rules, or do I need to write them down for you?” She enunciated carefully, as if speaking to a slow child.
“I understand.”
“I take my dinner at five, sharp. Early-bird hour.”More like geriatric hour, Uma thought, the little bit of meanness giving her a semblance of power. “I won’t stand for missing any of my stories, so you’d best hurry. Might want to clean first, though.” Ms. Lloyd sank into a chair at the kitchen table and turned the full intensity of her dark eyes onto Uma.
