peony
Istand outside of Mr. Edgewood’s quarters, my vacuum and caddy behind me, wondering what I’m going to find inside.
He’s out for the day, and I saw the huge black SUV pulling away as I arrived. Wow. It was a monster of a vehicle. Is Mr. Edgewood some kind of giant, or does he just like rolling in style?
It’s probably a rich person thing I don’t understand.
As I turn the worn doorknob to his rooms and push, I’m met with a puff of dust. It’s been some time, I think, since anyone came in here who wasn’t Mr. Edgewood.
The room is dark because the curtains are mostly drawn, allowing only thin beams of light through. Off to one side is a large sitting area with a fireplace that has most certainly been used, and often. A behemoth of a leather chair sits in front of it, with a normal-sized chair beside that. When myeyes adjust to the light, I creep closer to get a better look and realize just how massive the first chair is—as is the imprint of the person who uses it. Mr. Edgewood clearly sits here often.
What’s strangest about it, though, is the way the back is constructed with a rather large hole at the base. An odd design choice, and I can’t say that it’s one I would pick for myself.
Bookshelves line the walls of the sitting room, ending where the hallway begins. I go up three steps to reach it and discover a number of doors leading into adjoining rooms. I have to flip on the light switch because it’s almost too dark to see.
I open the first door to a large bathroom, which seems to join with the next room through another Jack and Jill door. Everything is built large, from the shower that’s big enough for four grown men to wash in, to the sprawling tub. Melted candles line the edge, and the natural light is dim.
Mr. Edgewood sure likes to keep things dark. I suppose it fits with his eccentric recluse persona.
I peer through the Jack and Jill door and find the bedroom where Mr. Edgewood must sleep. It feels eerily personal to be here, even though I’ve cleaned many bedrooms before—and found all manner of surprises there. I usually keep out of drawers whenever possible.
I’m making a battle plan in my mind while I slip out of the bedroom, then open the last door across from it. This appears to be a study, with even more bookshelves lining the walls, and a huge oak desk arranged near the center. It has another fireplace, which will also require cleaning, and I add it to my mental to-do list. Neither of them has been kept up very well, and I’ll have a lot of ashes to take out.
I don’t know how long Mr. Edgewood plans to be away, soI’ll clean as fast as I can and hope I get it all done before he returns. I feel that this is an important test, and it might just determine whether I stick around at Edgewood Manor.
I start with the cobwebs high in the corners, sprinting back to the west end of the house to fetch my step stool and the duster attached to a long pole that Mr. Castle gifted to me yesterday. That man is rather growing on me. His hair is a perfect salty white, but he doesn’t look a day over forty-five. He’s not necessarilykind, but he’s not gruff, either. He’s flexible, like a reed in the wind, never showing more than a breath of emotion here and there.
Once the cobwebs are done, I take care of the two fireplaces, dumping all the ash into trash bags and leaving them tied up in the hall. Then I dust every surface I can reach, from the mantelpiece to the frames of the dark paintings Mr. Edgewood has hanging everywhere. Some depict deep woods interrupted by thin beams of light; others are figures reclining under a night sky. There’s a black-and-white photograph in the study of the branches of a withered tree, and it casts such an eerie mood on the room that I can’t look at it for too long without getting the creeps.
Mr. Edgewood has peculiar taste, but I must admit he has an artistic eye, even if the subject matter is, well, depressing. At least it all matches.
Once I’ve dusted, I vacuum the lavish rugs. When I’m finished, they’re much brighter than before, and when I empty out the vacuum bag, I discover…
Fur. Tons and tons of fur. Shitloads of fur, as if there’s a dog living here I haven’t heard or seen.
Bewildered, I replace the bag and continue down the runner in the hallway. Vacuuming it has the same effect, leaving the rug a different color than when I started.
The bathroom too has a hair problem. Mr. Edgewoodmust have rather thick, long hair based on what I find caught in the drains. I wonder if the water can even run properly with how much is trapped in here. I end up spending far too long prying up the drain covers and then using a snake from my caddy to fish it all out.
It ends up in the trash bag with the fur.
Finally, the study. It’s nearly three p.m., and I realize that I’ve completely skipped lunch. Oh well. I wanted to be quick about it, and this is the best way to do that.
I dust all the spines of the books, then use polish on the desk after moving his pens, stapler, laptop and calendar from one side to the other. The calendar only has one appointment on it for today: SEE GIANCARLO.
What does he do the rest of the time?
After cleaning his entire living space, I thought surely I would understand Mr. Edgewood better. But even the titles of his books give nothing away, as they’re all of a huge variety, from biographies to fiction adventure novels, to even a romance paperback here and there. All I know is that he has a dog he’s hiding, and he must be a very, very large man. He doesn’t like sunlight, and he sure as hell doesn’t like dusting.
Plus, he has morbid taste in art.
What I find most interesting when I leave is how accustomed I’d grown to the scent of him, even for just the few hours I cleaned his living space. It’s spicy and musky, like cinnamon and leather mixed together, with a tang of something unique I can’t quite place. It reminds me of what a field smells like in winter, and I wonder if it’s a scent he uses.
Who would he be trying to impress with it?
When I’m finished, I take out the trash and help myself to a snack in the kitchen. Not long after, I hear a rumbling sound in front, and when I take a peek out the window, thehuge black SUV drives around the carriage circle and toward the garages.
I’m tempted to look. If I went right now to the garage entrance, I would probably see Mr. Edgewood with my own eyes.
