“Upset? Heavens no. Why would I be upset?”
“I… I was afraid it might hurt your feelings.”
“Wilda. You need counseling, girlfriend,” she says in a somewhat jovial tone. “If that’s all it would take to hurt your feelings, I suggest you find a good therapist.”
THIRTY-ONE
MISS PEARL
It’s here. Rush. The biggest week of the entire year. Most days I’ll clock in at five forty-five and won’t leave till one the next morning. By the time the week runs out, this forty-four-year-old girl will be completely outta gas. Theonlything positive about working that many hours is the number I’ll see on my check. It’s one of two weeks out of the year I get overtime pay, and it can’t come at a better time. My tires are still bald.
There are traces of October in the air when I park my car. My sweater is in the back seat so I reach behind me and slip it on. By the time I walk all the way to the House I’m five minutes late. Mama Carla is rambling around the kitchen when I clock in. She’s got an order sheet in one hand and a pencil in the other. I’m surprised to see her.
After placing my card back in the slot, I mosey toward her. “Why in the world are you up working so early?”
She’s still in her bathrobe, has last night’s makeup on her face, and her hair is a big mess. “Lordy, Pearl. I’ve been up all night.”
“Uh-oh. What’s happened now?”
She sucks in a deep breath then expels it slowly. “Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, one of yourbabiestook the liberty of propping the sidedoor open. When her boyfriend snuck inside the stairwell, drunk as Cooter Brown, he fell all the way to the bottom, splitting his head wide open.”
I gasp.
“She found him unconscious, so she had to call an ambulance, which, naturally, woke not only me, but the rest of the house.”
“Mercy me. He is okay?”
“He’s fine. A little embarrassed, but physically he’s fine.”
“Whose boyfriend?”
“Do you really want to know?” She leans on the wall for support. “She’s one of your favorites.”
“I don’t guess. I’m the maid, not the housemother.” We both chuckle.
“You should have seen our poor security guard, bless his heart.”
“What did Oliver do now?”
“When he heard the commotion, he banged on my door first. Then, as we walked through the house, he had both hands on his gun.” She stretches her arms out to demonstrate. “He ducked around every corner, like he was a cop onCSI.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Bless his heart. He’s our own Barney Fife.”
She chuckles, shakes her head. “Needless to say, I’ve been up ever since.”
“I was up late myself.”
“What called you to the witching hour? Something fun I hope.”
“I wish. Nothing bewitching about last night for me. I was right here. Till eight.”
“Don’t tell me; let me guess. You were rescuing another pair of thong panties from the agitator in the washing machine?”
“That was last week.”
“Hang on. Give me another try. You were teaching someone how to make instant oatmeal.”
“Hush now, Mama Carla. That’s my baby you’re talking about.”
