Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (2 page)

I allowed myself to suppose
that it wasn't impossible he could notice me—if only out of the
corner of his eye…if only in passing…if only as a fleeting glimpse.
I believe I'm
noticeable
. Yes, I know I said I can
be prone to embellishing the truth a bit, but I don't think I'm
stretching things when I say I've received my share of compliments
about my looks. You be the judge—

I'm five feet three inches tall with long
wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and I've been described on more
than one occasion as sporting that "hourglass" shape men are so
fond of. All right, my hourglass has a bit more minutes in the top
half. Actually, it's a substantial number of minutes I'm packing up
there. My mother said my top-to-bottom "hour's distribution"
is…

Thirty Minutes

Ten Minutes

Twenty Minutes

But that's a good thing, right?

Add to that a face that's been described by
many a churchgoer—and I'm not making this up—as reminiscent of the
cherubic angels floating about religious-themed paintings, and
you've got a pretty good description of me. So I ask you—if I
weren't a poor, simple maid, wouldn't it be possible, just maybe,
that a boy like Beau would notice me? Could be attracted to me?
Might want me?

Well, if wishes were nickels, I'd be a
millionaire. But life just doesn't work that way. So all the
wishful thinking in the world couldn't change the fact that I was
lusting for a gorgeous, rich boy I knew was way out of my league.
It was disheartening, and it made Fridays more of a chore, since
those were the days I'd catch periodic glimpses of Beau and wince
at the gloriously enticing sight of him.

Take me! Take me in your big, strong arms!
Hold me tight! Kiss me! Let me feel what it's like to be loved!

That's what I wanted say. I wanted to scream
it. Instead, I dutifully kept my mouth shut as I worked, breaking
my silence only on occasions when I might offer a, "Good morning,"
or, "Excuse me," in passing. He, in turn, was always polite,
keeping a respectful distance while under his mother's ever-present
and watchful eye. Ours was an acquaintanceship of fleeting moments
of cordial behavior. Nothing more.

May turned into June, and the sticky summer
heat made work even less pleasant and more wearying. It was the
workday's end on Friday, June 22nd, when, tired and sweaty, I
trudged toward the Eldridge's kitchen door and the freedom from
drudgery on the other side. I was nearly there when I felt someone
rustling by me.

"Here, let me get that." It was Beau. He
sprinted past me to open and hold the door. He had never done that
before. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I certainly wasn't
displeased.

"Thank you," I smiled. "Very kind of
you."

"My pleasure."

I gave a respectful head nod, and I squeezed
between Beau and the doorframe. As I did, I thought I felt a gentle
brushing at my hip.

"Have a good evening," were Beau's parting
words as the door closed behind me, and he disappeared.

I stood there in the Eldridge's back garden,
wondering why I had merited this unanticipated and unprecedented
gesture, when my hand sensed something within the pocket of my gray
work skirt. I reached in and felt a piece of folded paper that I
was certain hadn't been there before. Pulling out and unfolding the
paper, I saw the handwritten note:

You do a very good job. What do you do when
you're not working? What do you do for fun?

B

It was a note, from him! He had slipped it
into my pocket as I exited. I felt flush, lightheaded, breathless.
This was the last thing I expected. He was communicating with me.
Smalltalk, yes. But it was a direct, personal message to me, and me
alone, with the option for me to continue the conversation by
answering his questions.

My knees weakened, and walking to the
trolley was difficult. The whole way, I re-read that three-sentence
note over and over, my heartbeat quaking in my chest. Oh, so
delicately, I allowed my finger to trace the outline of that "B" on
the bottom—the "B" that stood for "Beau." His personal, very
special way of signing the note.

He noticed me. Thought of me. Wanted to know
more about me. It was only paper, but paper is just a beginning
that can lead to talking. And talking can lead to sharing feelings.
And sharing feelings can lead to intimacy. And intimacy…Ah!

But, wait! I was getting too far ahead of
myself. Nothing had changed regarding our stations in life. I was
still the cleaning woman. He was still the golden haired boy from
the well-to-do family. Why had he written this note? And why had he
snuck it into my pocket? Obviously, he was as aware as I was that
we didn't reside on the same social plane. So he must have chosen
this method of communication as a way to do it without arousing
family suspicions, which could turn ugly and result in
repercussions for him as well as me. Yes, he needed to keep it a
secret—for both our sakes. Whatever interest he had in me—and there
was no question about his having an interest, for why else take
such a risk?—it had to remain hidden. At least for now.

I'd never known a week to pass as slowly as
the seven days I was forced to wait before my next scheduled return
to the Eldridge house. I spent every one of those days laboring
over how I would respond to Beau's note. Of course, it would need
to be a written response, and it would need to be delivered
secretly. The delivery was something I'd have to deal with when
Friday rolled around. Till then, my focus was on the words I felt
an urgent need to compose.

I stayed up late night after night, avoiding
long conversation with my mother so I could concentrate on my
response to Beau.

What should I say? Should it be as short as
his? Or would a longer reply prompt more communication from him? Or
would a long response seem too forward? Too presumptuous? Too
desperate?

I crumpled and discarded sheet after sheet
of paper, second-guessing my wording to the point where I began to
doubt I'd ever be able to compose something acceptable,
respectable—adorable? Yes, I wanted him to adore me. But how does
one achieve that in a few sentences?

Friday,
finally
. I got no sleep the previous
night. Both mental and physical exhaustion were taking their toll
on me, and I only hoped it wasn't showing in my work. I didn't want
to lose any clients. The money I was earning was enough to allow me
to help my mother pay rent and still put some cash away in a bank
account. It was good to have a certain amount of financial
independence, and that was worth preserving.

In my pocket was the response note I
intended to slip to Beau—somehow. I didn't have absolute confidence
in the words I eventually settled on, but it was too late now to
crumple up yet another sheet and start anew. This was going to have
to be the draft that would be delivered. I took it out and
carefully unfolded it to read one last time.

Thank you for your kind note. It was much
appreciated. Since you were kind enough to ask, when not working, I
enjoy the picture shows. I also like walks and music and reading
and writing letters. What about you?

D

Actually, I neither received nor wrote many
letters, but I wanted him to feel free to write me as much as he
liked. So I included that part as a sort of indirect
invitation.

The addition of the final
words—
"What about
you?"—
was something I wrestled with for
three days. That's a day per word, for those of you who are keen on
numbers. That should tell you something about how big a decision
this was for me. Sure, it sounds like a fairly innocuous question,
but this wasn't just any boy. Was it too forward of me to ask this
particular boy—the son of my employer—such a direct question? Was I
asking for personal information the likes of which I had no right
to inquire? Would it be viewed as impertinent? I just wasn't sure.
Many a draft was torn up immediately after I wrote those words.
However, finally and with much doubt, I convinced myself to let
them be. I wanted so desperately for this to be more than just a
one-note exchange. If I asked a question, at least he'd have a
reason to write again, if only to answer it. If he didn't answer
it, then I'd know for certain that his interest in writing me his
note was merely a simple kindness that would not be repeated. If he
answered, then I'd have a second opportunity to gauge if there was
a true interest that might flourish into something more. I had to
take the chance.

Timidity be damned! Ask him for another
note, and let the chips fall where they may!

As soon as I entered the Eldridge house, my
mind raced with thoughts of how to get my note to Beau. I certainly
couldn't stick it in his pants pocket. Undeniably inappropriate. I
couldn't just hand it to him, even when I saw him walking about the
house. Mr. Eldridge was at work, but Mrs. Eldridge was there, as
were Beau's thirteen-year-old and fifteen-year-old sisters, and any
of them could happen upon me trying to pass the note to him. What's
more, even if we were alone, simply handing him the note seemed
wrong. That's not the way he had done it. His way was sneaky.
Actually, I prefer the word clandestine because it sounds so much
classier. Don't you think?

Anyway, I assumed I needed to employ a
similar method. The opportunity presented itself when I was
cleaning Beau's bedroom. There was no one else around, and there
before me was Beau's bed, with his pillow, the resting place for
his lovely blond head as he slept.

Should I leave the note on his pillow where
he'd find it just before going to bed; hopefully making me the last
thing he'd think about before falling asleep? No! Too risky! What
if someone else spied and intercepted it? Such a fate for my
carefully worded note! Surely, a better, less noticeable place is
needed!

Of course! It suddenly
seemed so obvious. The
pillowcase
. I peered out the bedroom
door to see if anyone was coming. The coast was clear. Then I
darted toward the bed, note in hand, and slipped my words into the
pillowcase such that the paper was covered by the linens, but would
be felt through the material as soon as Beau touched his head to
it. He, and only he, would receive my message, right at the very
end of his day. In a romantic kind of way, I would be with him when
he went to bed. It was genius.

I left the Eldridges at the close of the
workday, feeling self-satisfied. I had cleverly done what I had
intended. The message delivery was a snap. The really hard part
would be waiting yet another week to find out if Beau would
respond.

I sweated out the week, worrying over what
Beau thought of my message, worrying about whether he'd choose to
answer me, and worrying about the possibility that he somehow
didn't feel the paper in the pillowcase.

What if he turned the pillow over before
putting his head on it, never seeing the note at all? What if
someone else got to it first and read it before Beau even had the
chance?

I fretted over the catastrophe it would be
if Mr. Eldridge were waiting inside the house next Friday to scold
me for being a wanton girl and to dismiss me from his service.

Oh, god! What have I done?
What will I do if I'm fired, or if they tell all the other families
and
they all fire me? Why, oh, why, did I
take such a risk?

Friday again. I tiptoed through the Eldridge
kitchen door. Mr. Eldridge wasn't there. Mrs. Eldridge gave me the
usual nod that was her typical greeting. Nothing seemed different.
Everything and everyone seemed exactly as they were when I left
last week. Apparently, the disasters my imagination had concocted
didn't materialize.

And there was Beau. He was seated in the
parlor, thumbing through a Sears catalogue. I tried not to look
directly at him, although I was dying to read the expression on his
face when he noticed me.

"Good morning," he said in his usual,
cordial manner.

"Good morning." I felt my throat
constricting.

"Did you have a nice week?"

"Yes. Nice week."

"Good."

Had he read my note? Had he not? Was he
planning to respond? Was he intrigued? Amused? Put off? For God's
sake, Beau, give me a sign!

I was about to exit up to the second floor
when he spoke once more.

"Oh, would you mind fluffing my pillow when
you clean my room?"

The pillow! He was giving me a sign! He'd
read my note! And now he was directing me back to the pillow. Was
there a reason for that? What would I find there?

"Of course." I nodded courteously and
continued on my way up the stairs.

As soon as I reached the top step, I dashed
directly for Beau's bedroom. Once inside his room, I skipped to the
bed and cautiously felt the pillow. There was definitely something
within the pillowcase, something stiff and crinkly. Without even
checking to see if anyone was around, I reached into the pillowcase
and extracted a new folded piece of paper. I opened it to see what
it contained.

Whiz-bang! There are a lot more words on
this note!

I couldn't spend the time reading the note
right there and then. That would be too risky. Mrs. Eldridge could
come along and demand to know what I was reading during the time
her husband was paying me to be working. I refolded the paper and
placed it inside my skirt pocket. This would be something to savor
when it was safe. Meanwhile, I basked in the glow of my then most
cherished possession—my personal message from Beau.

The end of the workday couldn't come quick
enough, and, even though it meant I'd be leaving the home where my
precious boy lived, I was overjoyed to finally have the opportunity
I had been waiting for—a chance to read the note. I opened it the
moment I was out of sight of the house.