Mrs. Whitaker had left a note on the kitchen counter. It was written on thick cream-colored paper in perfect cursive.
Carly —
Supplies are under the sink. Please do not use bleach on the kitchen floor; it’s original. The guest
towels are the white ones with the blue stitching. The towels for me are the plain gray. Please don’t move the photographs on the piano. I’ll be back around one.
— M.W.
I followed every word of that note like it was the law.
I cleaned that house harder than I have ever cleaned anything in my life. I scrubbed the grout in the upstairs bathroom with a toothbrush. I dusted the tops of the doorframes. I washed the
baseboards on my hands and knees. I cleaned the inside of the oven, which I’m pretty sure hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration.
When I dusted the piano, I lifted each picture frame, wiped underneath it, and put it back down in
exactly the same spot. I lined them up with the little dust outlines so they wouldn’t move even a quarter of an inch.
There were a lot of pictures. A young couple on their wedding day, in black and white. A little girl
with pigtails on a swing. The same girl in a cap and gown. A tall man with a kind face and a bow tie, holding a fish and laughing. I figured that was Mr. Whitaker.
At noon, I was hungry. I had packed a peanut butter sandwich and an apple. I looked around
that big, beautiful kitchen with its checkered floor and its round table by the window.
Then I went out and ate my sandwich in my car.
