In the bathroom mirror the face was a wan hopeful girl’s face. Not a bad-looking face, I thought.

  The scar at my hairline might’ve been a birthmark. Or a clever little rose tattoo. More than once I’d seen Metti glance at it and his glance linger. An exquisite sensation, to imagine the man pressing his mouth against it.

  Also, I’d changed the color of my hair since the previous Thursday.

  Metti had seen my hair as brown. If he’d noticed at all. Now it was glossy-jet-black, with “russet-red” highlights. Shorter, with bangs that fell to my eyebrows.

  Changing the color of my hair at intervals. Though I knew that no one was stalking me still it seemed prudent to take measures to prevent someone from stalking me.

  And the maroon lipstick, that smelled like overripe grapes.

  I wasn’t so shy when I was alone. People who believed they knew me would’ve been astonished to see how brazenly I rubbed the fragrant French cream onto my face, neck, hands.

  Telling myself no one would know. Whoever owned the cream had left it behind. If she did return, she wouldn’t ask Metti what had become of it. Or, she’d have forgotten it herself. Or, Metti would never bring her back.

  Maybe he tired of them, quickly. That was the male prerogative.

  More than one woman. I was sure, examining the evidence.

  Thrilling to me, that my employer was cruel to women. Adult women.

  In years I was an adult woman—twenty-five years, seven months. But so slender, lean-hipped, with small breasts and a flat belly, at a little distance you might have mistaken me for an adolescent boy, in T-shirt and jeans.

  Not unlike the Modigliani nudes on the living room wall. So it had occurred to me.

  Just the girl. Not the other.

  Indeed I was smelling of my body. For I’d been working very hard. Determined to do a good job for Orlando Metti, to earn the generous tips he gave. To please the man, to avoid a look of displeasure, disappointment in his face.

  Should I take a shower?—would that please him? I would clean up after myself, if I did.

  The idea was thrilling. I could hardly breathe, considering. But had not Dr. Metti invited me to take a shower in his apartment? Smiling at me, enjoying my discomfort. Taking care to call me by my name—Violet. To prove he hadn’t forgotten my name.

  How many girls, women whose names the man had forgotten. Shaken off like something on a gleaming leather shoe.

  Quickly then, before I could change my mind, I stripped off my clothes—T-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans, underwear. Gray woolen socks. Rare for me to glance at myself in the mirror for I did not like to be reminded of who I was but I saw now that my small hard breasts had oddly large, soft-looking nipples, a pale brown, like freckles. There was a shadow at my belly, a kind of cleft. A swath of downy pubic hair. The pallor of my skin suggested illness or malnutrition but it was the winter pallor of the Irish, the Kerrigans.

  In a bathroom drawer I found a shower cap, saw with interest that there were several blond hairs stuck to it, which I shook out. One of Metti’s women.

  How many, I could not guess. Perhaps two or three. Or more. I had not once encountered any woman in the apartment, leaving or arriving. Yet there’d been the evidence of soiled sheets. Mucus stains, lipstick stains. Though I stripped the king-sized bed in Metti’s bedroom as quickly as I could, not wanting to see anything, half-shutting my eyes that I would be spared seeing anything, yet it was my sense that yes, Metti’s bed was often slept-in by more than one person, and for all that I knew, Metti had changed the bedsheets himself during the week, or one of the women had changed the bedsheets replacing soiled sheets with clean sheets out of a sense of delicacy, decorum.

  Languorously I stood beneath Metti’s elegant nickel-plated showerhead, slowly I soaped my body, and let hot water stream down my torso, belly, legs. Even before I shut off the shower, and rubbed myself dry in an enormous soft towel, I began to feel sleepy.

  Removed the shower cap, fluffed out the glossy-black hair. Still there was maroon lipstick on my mouth, smudged. The buttery-rich cream had worn off in the shower and so I applied more to my face, flushed now from the heat of the shower.

  Made my way barefoot, wrapped in the towel, to the room where Metti kept his liquor. Had not Metti invited me to join him in a drink, more than once? Of course I’d always declined. But now, brazenly I went to the liquor cabinet and poured an inch or two of whiskey into a glass.

  It was an experiment: observing myself. Smiling at Metti as he handed it to me. Thank you, Dr. Metti!

  In small cautious swallows I consumed the whiskey. When men bought me drinks I did not always drink them but found ways to dispose of them. But when I did drink, I became sleepy. And now, I was very sleepy.

  I intended to dress quickly, and to complete the housecleaning. If Metti was to return home before I left, he would return in about forty minutes; he’d already left a tip for me on a table in the foyer, a sign that he might not be returning.

  I had not yet taken the tip. That would be my reward, when I completed my housecleaning.

  In Metti’s bedroom the bright sunshine of an hour before, that had spilled through the tall windows, had become muted, bleak. The king-sized bed was awkward to make, requiring a fitted bottom sheet. As soon as I’d arrived to do the cleaning that afternoon I’d stripped the bed to throw the sheets into the laundry and in the interval I’d begun to make the bed with fresh sheets. You do not want to use the same sheets each week. Nor hang the same towels in the bathroom each week. In the midst of making the bed I’d become diverted by the Yves Rocher face cream on the bedside table.

  So very sleepy, I had to lie down on the bed. Shut my eyes for only a moment, I thought.

  Should’ve removed the maroon lipstick but too tired. If Metti saw, he would know . . .

  But too sleepy. Sleep like ether lifting into my brain.

  Then I was asleep. That delicious voluptuous sleep like floating in dark water. No dreams, for the water is too shallow. Yet the water is deep enough to cover your mouth, nose, eyes. And soon then, it seemed that I was being wakened—not by a light switched on to blind me, nor by an exclamation of surprise, but by a sudden presence close by.

  The man had returned, and was standing in the doorway of the room, staring at me.

  Utterly astonished. Staring.

  Outside the tall windows the wan winter light had shifted. Hours had been lost, it was much later in the day. There were no lights in the bedroom.

  A single light in the hall fell slantwise onto me sprawled naked in the oversized towel and my arms outflung as if I’d fallen from a height, helpless.

  “Violet! Hello.”

  At last Metti spoke. His voice caught in his throat, he was deeply stirred. His face was livid with feeling. I thought—He is furious with me. He will fire me.

  Then I thought—He will make love with me.

  “Violet. My God.”

  This was not an Orlando Metti familiar to me. This was an abashed man, totally taken by surprise, smiling, but dazedly smiling, almost at a loss for words.

  “You are so beautiful. So sad. Like the Sorrowful Madonna—or maybe—Sorrowful Virgin . . . Can’t remember the artist’s name, something like Rossi, or—Bellini? Italian Renaissance . . .”

  In the doorway the man stood indecisive, tentative. This was his bedroom, and that was his bed, and yet: What was permitted him? He had not yet removed his overcoat. His dark, graying hair glistened with melting snowflakes. He was waiting for me to give him permission to approach. He did not want to misunderstand. He did not want to make a terrible mistake. He did not want to be accused of a sex crime. He did not want to be sued by Maid Brigade, or blackmailed by the naked girl wrapped in a towel in his bed.

  By this time I was sitting up. Groggy, uncertain where I was. An aftertaste of whiskey in my mouth. (Was I drunk? Who’d made me drunk?) Hugging the damp towel close about myself.

  Yet strangely calm. Not at all frightened. For whatever happened, had happened. And whatever was yet to happen would happen, beyond my control.

  At last unable to resist Metti stammered: “Violet? May I—OK if I—touch you? Is that what you would like?”

  Yes. Yes. If you will pay me extra.

  Damned Little Dog

  FOLLOWING THIS, THINGS HAPPENED SWIFTLY.

  Like that morning in school when Ms. Micaela took me out of class. And then to the school nurse. And then, the principal. And then, the police officers.

  Safe now. Safe now.

  For he adored me, he said. Crazy for me.

  How beautiful I was. How sorrowful. Never seen such sorrowful eyes.

  No more cleaning his apartment! In fact, he would pay me not to clean his apartment.

  No more doing his laundry! Scrubbing his toilets! Vacuuming the floors! Cleaning up after the damned little dog!

  The identical fee each week, with a tip. Of course. Cash.

  “No more housecleaning for you, Violet. Tell the Agency you are quitting.”

  Intoxicated with his own generosity. The suddenness of love.

  Gay, festive. Exuberant. “Darling, we must celebrate!”

  Wine, champagne. Struggling to open a bottle of champagne that kept slipping from his fingers.

  Panting with laughter, together. Already I was drunk, before I swallowed the first fizzing mouthful in a sparkling-clean glass that, the previous week, I’d washed myself by hand, and carefully dried.

  Kissing me, a flurry of mothlike kisses. He was an eager lover, unexpectedly tender. Unexpectedly careful. Not to press too hard, not to weigh too heavily.

  A perpetual quickened breath, heated skin. Astonished eyes. Hands framing my face as if he’d never seen anything like me before.

  “First time I saw you, I knew. Crazy for you.”

  True? Not true.

  Mistaking my silence for evasiveness. Mistaking my insecurity for mystery.

  “But then, you are so young. So much younger than I am . . .”

  Wistful. Not (yet) resentful.

  “YOU MUST CALL ME ‘ORLANDO.’ C’MON! IT ISN’T HARD.”

  “‘Vio-let.’ Never known a ‘Violet’ before.”

  Then, “That’s your actual name, is it? On your birth certificate?”

  IF OTHER WOMEN CALLED WHILE I WAS IN HIS PRESENCE HE would not pick up the receiver. How gratified I felt, to be preferred by this man.

  Orlando wasn’t available. No!

  Cruel of him to listen to the woman’s faltering message played back and then in mid-sentence deleted.

  Only one of these women was the ex-wife. The daughter never called.

  The excitement over Violet seemed to have been the discovery of a beautiful sorrowing virgin/Madonna inside the cleaning-woman’s loose-fitting clothes. T-shirt, jeans. Gray woolen socks.

  A quite attractive female-body, where no body at all was expected.

  Kissing the star-shaped scar at the hairline. A man is attracted without his knowing. Kissing, sucking.

  A shudder running through two bodies in an instant.

  And now, searching through the apartment for a gift to give the shy-seeming/sullen-seeming girl to make her smile. A memento.

  A necklace, turquoise beads, slipping it over my head, beads tangling in my hair—“Beautiful! Perfect.”

  (Had the necklace belonged to the daughter, left carelessly behind? I would find several dark hairs tangled in the beads and tug them out, bemused.)

  Maroon lipstick was his favorite—“Classy. Sexy.”

  Ivory Translucent makeup, powder. Mascara to emphasize the deep-set mysterious eyes. Glossy jet-black hair parted so that the little star-shaped scar was exposed.

  He’d always thought, since he’d been a kid, the natural look was overrated. Nobody’s turned on by some face not so different from a young guy’s.

  “Here, buy some things for yourself. Not drugstore cosmetics. Take it all. Go on! I’d start a credit card account for you, but . . . .”

  Voice trailing off as a rueful memory intruded.

  THEN AGAIN, HE WAS SOBER. HADN’T HAD A DRINK ALL DAY.

  Well, maybe at lunch. But only a glass, two glasses, red wine.

  Brooding, vexed about something. The jubilance had faded from his voice. Calling me from his office at the research institute, voice lowered.

  On the phone he’d purchased for me that he might call me at any time on it and I must answer immediately: “Hello? Violet? Where are you?”

  A phone purchased for me with an (unlisted) number only he might know. No one else could call me on that phone.

  “It’s a deal, Violet? Yes?”

  Very exciting, I thought. The sensation of fingers encircling a neck, beginning to tighten.

  Driving in his car along the river. That fleeting sense of gratification, the car is a Jaguar.

  Beautiful car, soundless engine. The driver’s hand falls from the steering wheel onto the girl’s thigh, squeezes. Hard enough to leave faint bruises she will discover that night.

  “Tell me about yourself, Violet. You have so many secrets!”

  It was true, I was very quiet in Orlando Metti’s presence. In a daze of unreality, that an adult man should claim to adore me.

  “What are you studying? Did you tell me?”

  Another time I told him. Another time he seemed to be listening, as a father might listen to a child’s recitation, hearing the child’s voice, smiling in delight at the child’s voice, not hearing actual words.

  Though Metti seemed impressed that I was taking university courses in the evening school yet he could not seem to comprehend that I had to actually attend classes. Dinner with him? Drive to the Warburton Hotel, twelve miles away?

  “But why not? You can miss a class now and then.”

  Or: “You can miss a class now and then for Christ’s sake.”

  “I THINK THAT IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL NAME—‘VIOLET.’ IS IT your actual name?”

  “None of it is important, Violet. Don’t give it a second thought.”

  “Do you trust me, Violet? I want you to know that you can trust me.”

  Yes yes yes.

  No certainly not. But yes—I will try.

  “Is something wrong, Violet?”—no longer bantering. An edge in his voice.

  Came to me, and took my hands in his. The sensation of his touch so warm, so comforting, tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over onto my cheeks.

  Came to me, and took both my hands in his. Hard.

  The recoil was so unexpected, tears welled in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks.

  He liked to kiss, suck at the little scar. He liked to kiss, suck at the soft-brown nipples, making them hard as little pellets. He liked to kiss, suck at the moist cringing tissue between my legs, that was an opened wound, that would never heal.

  Insinuating himself into me like a parasite. Snug in my warm moist places, that he could fatten himself on me without my knowledge yet with my complicity.

  LIKING HER BEST WHEN SHE WAS “SORROWFUL.”

  Gently he would ask, “Is there something eating at your heart, Violet?”—the very sound of her name wondrous in his voice.

  DIDN’T DARE ASK. RECALLING HOW HER FATHER DISLIKED PERSONAL questions.

  “Her? The ex? Nothing to say. ‘Been there, done that.’ Fini.”

  FINISHED WITH MAID BRIGADE! SHE HAS MET THE KINDEST MOST wonderful most generous man who has promised to pay for her college tuition—“Think of it as a loan, dear. No interest. No due date. No strings attached.”

  NO STRINGS ATTACHED. HE HAS CALLED THE PHONE INSTALLED IN her rented room in the wood frame house on Cayuga Street seventeen times in succession. Why no answer, where the hell is she?—“You’re sure, nobody else knows this number?”

  ANYWAY, YOU’RE PAID OFF THE BOOKS. OWE THEM NOTHING, they don’t owe you anything.

  Still: you are thinking yes, you will continue to work for Maid Brigade. On non-teaching days. Exclusively female clients.

  Not lying to Orlando Metti. Not exactly.

  Good to get your hands on all the money you can. While you can.

  TWENTY-DOLLAR BILLS. FIFTY-DOLLAR BILLS. A ONE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR bill, pressed into my hand.

  Smiling to myself. Well. You’ve earned it, Vi’let.

  Some of it is required to keep myself alive. Some of it is hidden in a drawer, to be sent to the Johnson family on Howard Street, South Niagara, in next February’s Valentine.

  OPENING THE GILT-WRAPPED LITTLE BOX. FUMBLING, MY FINGERS are clumsy.

  As Metti stares greedily, grimly.

  (OK. I’m drunk: with this man drinks aren’t optional but obligatory.)

  Lifting the bracelet out of tissue paper. Gold-plated. Heavy, unwieldy. Telling the man beautiful so beautiful thank you. Immediately I see that the clasp is impossible, never will I be able to put this beautiful bracelet on my wrist by myself using just one hand. Never will I be able to put it on my wrist unassisted.

  Nor is Metti sober enough to assist right now.

  “Shit! Fuckin thing is so fuckin small. . . . Should’ve had you along with me in the fuckin store.”

  Metti’s face darkens with blood. It is the first time I have seen him so furious. Trying to open the miniature clasp, then to close it properly, is too great a challenge for the man’s fingers; his coordination is poor when he has been drinking, like now.

  “God-damned fuckin . . .”

  My solution is to take the bracelet from Metti. Close the clasp using both hands. Then attempt to squeeze the bracelet over my hand and onto my wrist which turns out to be not so easy.

  “What’re you doing? You’re gonna break it . . .”

  Still I continue for I understand that the gold-plated bracelet must be put on my wrist. There is no way to endure the next hour if the bracelet is not on the wrist of the gift-recipient to be modeled for the man.

  Turning the bracelet, tugging at it, trying not to wince with pain as I squeeze it over my knuckles, or nearly.

  “Be careful! You’re gonna break it . . .”

  Metti is sounding already aggrieved. His face is dangerously flushed.

  In his medicine cabinet I have seen prescription pills: hypertension.