“I don’t mind. I’m used to it.”
Mr. Carboni said I was to return to 16-115 at half five, just like the other day, so I check the little clocks as we go from room to room. When ’tis time, I tell Bianca the next one is for her to clean on her own.
“I’ll come and check after.”
“Where are you going?” she wants to know.
I feel a wriggle of fear in my chest, thinking about the answer. I’m nervous all over again, now that I know about Mr. Carboni. “I’ve been asked to clean the suite at the end of the hall, and I don’t want to be late. Do you think you can clean this by yourself?”
She thinks it over. “Of course.”
“I’ll come back after and get you. Go slow, all right? Make sure you get every little speck of dust and fold the corners on the bed exactly.”
At 16-115, I knock and call, knock and call, then I walk into the same mess as before, only worse. Cigars are falling out of the big ashtray, and papers are everywhere. The sweet stink of cigar smoke lingers, tickling my nose. I start cleaning in the living room, emptying the ashtray, dusting the desk until it shines. There are no brassieres under the desk today. When it comes to picking up all the paper, I try not to read what’s written, but I can’t help seeing some of the dark print. The writing is more like scribbling. The only word I can read isMontreal.
That makes me think of Da. I wonder how he is doing out there. I haven’t heard hide nor hair from him in a long while. Months, I realize. I wish I could tell him about my life these days, but there are so many things to say, I wouldn’t know where to start.
I fluff the cushions on the chairs, then I go to the main bedroom, which is separated from the office by a door. It’s open, and the bed has hardly beenslept in, but it’s a little mussed, so I set it again anyway. How would it go if Bianca came in and saw I’d done a sloppy job of it? That wouldn’t do. Someone has spilled a glass of water on the nightstand, so I rush over and run my cloth over the surface, buffing it to a shine. Some of the water has leaked into the drawer, so I open it and stop cold.
I’ve never seen a pistol before. I’ve seen rifles, but not a little gun like this. Not something that can fit so neatly into a drawer, then into a hand.
Oh, Damien, I think, my heart beating fast.Your boss has a gun right here beside his pillow.
With sweaty hands, I slide the drawer closed again, wishing I’d never opened it. I do it as softly as possible, as if the gun might go off if I slam it. Then I breathe out, telling myself not to get worked up over nothing. Really, ’tis none of my business if Mr. Carboni has a gun. It’s not up to me to report it to Mrs. Evans. She knows what he does. She probably assumes he has one. That’s what I tell myself.
My last stop in the suite is the washroom. I’m unsettled, and all my mind sees is that ugly black pistol. The handle was a bit faded, and I imagine Mr. Carboni has used it before. That is a terrifying thought, and I try to flush it from my mind when I flush the toilet. When I’m done in the washroom, I step back and examine the bathtub, toilet, sink, and floor. I have been cleaning without thinking. Fortunately, it’s sparkling.
Just then, I hear a kind of banging coming from the sink, like the voices the other day. I lean in, willing the sound to come again, and it does. Kind of a clanking sound. Is there something wrong with the plumbing? I back away, then I hear the voices start up. I can’t make out a word they’re saying, but no matter. It has nothing to do with me. But ’tis loud. I hope the guests aren’t bothered by it.
On my way out of Mr. Carboni’s suite, I spy coins on the table by the door. A tip, I think gladly. Beside that’s a note that saysFor the maid. I pick it up and stare at the three nickels and one dime set out for me. Twenty-five cents, all at once. Listen, that’s a quarter of a day’s wages, isn’t it? Butmy conscience nudges me. Is it all right to take tips from a criminal? Can I go to jail for it? That’s a foolish thought, though. No one would know where the money came from, and I’ll not insult Mr. Carboni by refusing his money. I drop the coins into my pocket before I can change my mind.
Beside the note is a pen. At the bottom of his note, I write,Thank you, from Rosie Ryan, your chambermaidas neatly as I can, but my hand is shaking. I’m not supposed to talk with the guests, and I’m not sure if this is talking in that sense. I’m still distracted when I step into the hallway and lock the door behind me. I jump when Bianca calls out.
“All done, Rosie! Want to come and see if I did it right?”
“Don’t shout down the hallway,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re as bad as that fat fella, calling that a shout.”
By the time I have checked Bianca’s work, my head is back on straight. The pistol is shut safely in the drawer, so I lock it away in my head and clean my hands of it. Instead, I focus on the twenty-five cents.
I will teach Bianca about tips another day.
I can’t keep secrets from Damien, though. Sure, it’s wrong for me to gossip about the guests, but this is Damien. And is it truly gossip if it’s the truth? I tell him… well, I tell him practically everything. On our walk home, I mention the pistol, and he is fascinated. He wants me to describe the gun, but all I can think of is how it frightened me.
“I’ve seen a gun before,” he says, “but only from afar. Two fellas with pistols ran out of a building and shot at a car while another lad drove off.”
My mouth drops open. He tells it like it’s nothing. Makes me nervous thinking about it, but Damien seems eager to see more.
I stop walking and grab his wrist, forcing him to face me. “Damien. I want you to stay away from Mr. Carboni, do you hear?”
He pulls me in for a hug, and a layer of my concerns melts into the soft, slightly musky fibres of his worn grey jumper. But Damien is not a man to be told what to do, not even by me.
“I will not promise you that, Rosie. I cannot. If I told you that I would,I’d be lying, and I’ll never lie to you. But I’ll promise you this: your Damien will be fine. And I’ll take care of you. Always.”
Usually, I fall asleep quick, since I’ve been on my feet fifteen hours or more. Tonight, my head cannot sleep for thinking of that gun. In the dreams that eventually come, its cold, black barrel is pointing at me.
chapterEIGHTEEN
