A Slow Boil (2 page)

As I walked back into town, my thoughts were flying a mile a
minute. I had actually managed to do it – get a job for the summer, one with reasonable
hours and excellent pay.  Five hundred a week was more than I could spend,
even if I tried.  My budgets had always been small and my luxuries things
like books and an occasional meal out.  Surely with two thousand a month
to spend, a place to live would be easy to find.  Mr. Hunter's house was
two miles out of town, about a thirty minute walk.  The closer I lived to
him, the easier it would be, so I would start my search on the north side of
town.  My excitement continued to grow as I imagined being able to afford
my own apartment.  That would be pure luxury after a year of sharing a
tiny dorm room with two other girls.

Yes, I was in full-on self-congratulatory mode until my mind
veered back to Mr. Hunter.  His demeanor made him seem older than he
looked.  He was younger than I'd expected, but so stiff and
reserved.  He didn't mince words, which I liked, but he clearly was used
to giving orders and he obviously didn't get chummy with his employees. 
That was fine with me, I was looking for a job, not a friend, but still
something about him intimidated me.  I really hoped I could work quietly
enough not to disturb him as it was easy to imagine his temper flaring.  I
was glad I would only be seeing him once a day, at dinner.

Hours later I was in the library finishing my first draft of a
final paper due way too soon when my cell vibrated.  It was Britt and I
wanted to tell her about getting the job, so I packed my books and headed
outside, hitting the call back number as I cleared the exit.

“Britt, I did it, I got the job!”

“
Syl
, that's great!  I'm so
excited!  That means you get to stay here this summer!  We're going
to have so much fun!”

“I know, I know, but I still have to find a place to live. You
don't happen to know anyone with a room to rent, do you?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I can ask around. We'll find you
something, that'll be easy.  And fun.  We can start looking this
weekend.”

“That'd be great.  I appreciate it so much, Britt, your help
with all of this, I mean.  I couldn't do it without you.”

“Oh
Syl
, I won't pretend to be
completely altruistic here.  I want you here for the summer so we can hang
out together.  I'm selfish like that.”

I laughed.  “Well, keep being selfish because it's working
out great for me.”

“Will do.  Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

I closed my phone and headed back to my room.  My roommates
were both still out so I did a little more work and then went to bed.  My
mind kept circling around issues I was working out in my papers, before it
finally began to relax and wander off to imagine apartments.  It wasn't
long before I was again thinking about the handsome Mr. Hunter.  He was so
… authoritative, more so than most of my professors, but there was something
else about him I couldn't quite put my finger on.  He'd seemed easily
displeased, a frown his normal expression, but I remembered the way his face
had lit up when he'd briefly smiled during the interview, the way his eyes
crinkled at the corners, and thought how much I'd like to see him smile
again.  I wondered what it was going to be like serving him dinner, if
he'd like my cooking, what his behavior would be like.  Would he snap out
orders at me or not even speak, expecting silence at dinner as well?  Or
would I see a more pleasant, amusable side of him?  I finally gave up
wondering and rolled over, pushing thoughts of Mr. Hunter out of my head. 
I'd find out soon enough.

Friday came up fast.  Finals were approaching and I was busy
with papers, papers, and more papers.  Noble didn't cut exchange students
any
slack, that
was for sure, and as an anthropology
major I didn't get the luxury of memorizing mathematical formulas or tabulating
biology lab results.  No, I was expected to 'process information,' which
meant reading tons of field studies and synthesizing the data into
comprehensible, clear language that was wholly backed up by a plethora of
footnotes and citations.  It was exhausting, the attention to minutiae,
and I found myself more than once looking forward to the summer when all I'd
have to do was sweep a floor, dust a shelf, scrub a toilet, and I could
consider myself done for the day.  Housekeeping was looking pretty good at
this point.

It was with that attitude that I headed out to Mr. Hunter's house
around two-thirty Friday afternoon.  I'd been too nervous my first time
out here to appreciate how imposing the house was once it came into view. 
The facade was mostly stone, but the rooms on the upper floors had such huge
windows that almost all I could see was glass.  It was bigger than I'd
realized, three stories tall, and looked like a daunting thing to keep
clean.  As I rang the doorbell, I wondered if my elation at getting this
job had been premature.

“Sylvia, I'm so happy to see you again.  Come in. 
Obviously your interview went well.”

“I guess it did, Mrs. Sheridan.  It's good to see you again,
too.”

“Thank you, Sylvia.  Well, let's get started.  I'll show
you the kitchen first.”

I followed her through the foyer, past what looked like a living
room and through a hallway into an unbelievably perfect kitchen.

“Oh my god!” It escaped my lips before I'd even formed the
thought, but who could blame me?  This was right out of a magazine. 
I noticed a Subzero refrigerator, Viking gas range, granite counter tops, a
huge double sink … I was in heaven.  Growing up in a tiny house, I'd had
about a foot of counter space, an ancient electric stove, and a decrepit fridge
to work with.  This kitchen was the kind I'd always dreamed about having
one day.

“Yes, it's very nice, isn't it?”  Mrs. Sheridan politely
answered my outburst. “You'll find everything you need here to make whatever
you want.  Let me show you around.”

After showing me the well-stocked pantry, the storage cupboards of
small appliances, the cutlery tools inside the island, as well as providing
instructions in starting the dishwasher and setting up Mr. Hunter's morning
coffee, Mrs. Sheridan turned toward a door at the far side of the room.

“Now, through here is the dining room.  Mr. Hunter comes down
promptly at six every evening and it's important you have his dinner ready to
serve then or shortly thereafter.  He doesn't like to wait.  But
don't bring it out any earlier, either.”  We walked through the swinging
door and into a large room that was furnished with a table and six chairs, a
sideboard, and a liquor cabinet.  Velvet curtains again lined one wall
from floor to ceiling and were drawn closed, allowing in no natural
light.  Mrs. Sheridan flicked a switch on the wall and a chandelier
sparkled to life above the table.  She showed me the place settings, napkins,
and silverware in the sideboard, and then described how Mr. Hunter liked his
martinis, if he should ask for one.  I was concentrating on memorizing the
number of olives he liked when Mrs. Sheridan's tone changed.

“Mr. Hunter will want you to wait in the kitchen while he
eats.  He'll call you in if he needs anything.  You can sit at the
island and eat your own dinner until he does.”

“All right.  I think I can handle that.”  I had the
distinct impression she was omitting something.

“Good.  After he's finished eating, he'll get up and leave
through there.”  She pointed to another door on the opposing wall. 
“Once he's left, you clear his dishes, wipe down the table, clean the kitchen,
start the dishwasher, set up his coffee to brew in the morning, and that's
it.  Then you're done for the day and may leave.  He won't expect you
to say good-bye.  Just make sure you lock the back door behind
yourself.  Do you have any question thus far?”

“What does Mr. Hunter like to eat?”

“You know, I've never asked him.  He's always eaten
everything I've made him without a complaint, so I'd have to say he likes
simple meals, nothing fancy.”

“Is there anything he doesn't like?”

“Again, I don't know.  I'm a little embarrassed to admit that
after four years here, but I don't ever remember him complaining about anything
I served, or telling me not to serve it again.  He prefers healthy foods,
so go easy on the fat and salt, but a dessert now and then will get you into
his good graces faster than anything else.  You know men.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged knowingly, while realizing that the only man
I'd ever cooked for had only eaten things you could melt cheese on, douse in
barbecue sauce, or slather with mayonnaise and I'd never baked a pie or cake in
my life.  But I was confident I could learn and given the inspiring
kitchen I’d have at my disposal, I found myself looking forward this part of
the job immensely.

We went back into the kitchen and Mrs. Sheridan showed me a slim
binder that outlined which days I was to do perform which task.  The
laundry and dinner would be the two things I would do every day.  Other
than that, each day had its own assigned task.  On Mondays I would dust
the entire house.  Tuesday was vacuuming day.  Wednesday was the day
I'd clean the office.  Thursdays I'd sweep and mop all the wood and tile
floors, and Fridays were the days I'd do the bathrooms plus any incidentals Mr.
Hunter wanted completed at the end of the week.

“Let me show you the utility closet.”  She led me to a door
that opened to a descending stairway.  As we headed downstairs, she
reassured me that Mr. Hunter was a perfectly reasonable employer as long as I
completed the work.  Even though they were alone together in the house
most afternoons, she rarely saw him, even more rarely spoke to him.  The
key to success, she'd figured out, was silence. “He really values that above
all else.  If you can be quiet, no matter what you're doing, he'll be
happy with the results.”

“Okay, but how am I supposed to vacuum silently?”

Opening the door to a walk-in closet full of cleaning equipment,
she pointed to a fancy looking contraption.  “This vacuum cleaner is a new
model, state-of-the-art, from Europe.  It barely makes a sound.”

“That's amazing.  But what about when I'm fixing dinner? When
the Cuisinart is running, the exhaust fan is blowing, the coffee beans are
grinding?  How am I supposed to do those things silently?”

“I didn't show you when we were in the kitchen, but there's a
sliding door that you can pull closed and it seems to work effectively.  I
never heard any complaints from Mr. Hunter, so I assume it works.”

Then she led me to the laundry room which was also in the
basement, and showed me how to work the machines.  She reiterated that Mr.
Hunter liked his laundry washed daily, even if there wasn't much.

“Where do I find his dirty clothes and what do I do with his
laundry when it's done?”

“That’s next,” she nodded. “Let me show his room.”

She led me up three flights of stairs to the top floor of the
house.

“All of these rooms are unused unless Mr. Hunter has
company.  But this is his room right here.” She stopped and pushed open
the door.  To say that entering Mr. Hunter's inner sanctum felt like an
invasion of privacy was an understatement.  While his office had been
barren of personal affects, this room was a testament to the man's inner self.
The bed was huge and prominent, covered in a deep red silk.  Paintings
took up all available wall space.  The dresser was overflowing with
photographs, so many that even more had been pushed up into the frame of the
mirror suspended above it.

“Where do I put his clothes?” I asked quietly as I pulled myself
away from a particularly fetching photograph of a young tow-headed boy on a
swing.

“His boxers and t-shirts go in this drawer.  His socks
here.  Jeans here.  Dress clothes go in the closet on hangers. 
Put newly laundered clothes on the bottom of the pile so that he's always
drawing on the oldest washed.  Make sense?”

“Yes. Perfect sense.”  Then I couldn't help myself and I
gestured to all the photographs on the dresser.  “Who are all these
people?”

“Mr. Hunter's family.  You might get to meet them if they
visit again this summer, although I'm not sure they enjoyed themselves last
year.”  She stopped herself, realizing she was on the verge of gossiping
about her employer, and quickly changed the subject.  “The hamper is in
his bathroom – that's where you'll find his dirty clothes and towels.  And
he likes fresh sheets on his bed once a week.  I usually change them on Fridays
when I'm up here cleaning his bathroom.  The linen closet's here.”

We walked back into the hallway.  “I think that's about
it.  I'll give you a key to the back entrance and then we're done, unless
you have any more questions.”

“No, I think I've got this.  I think I can do it.”

“Good.  I'm sure you can.”

But as she descended the stairs in front of me, I realized I had
one more question.

“Mrs. Sheridan, there is one more thing I'm curious about. 
Can I ask why you're leaving?”

She turned around quickly and glanced to her left.  I
realized we were on the landing just outside Mr. Hunter's office.  She
took hold of my elbow and pulled me down the remaining stairs, through the hall
and into the kitchen.  Once there, she pulled a door out of a recess and
closed it tightly.  Ah, the sliding door.