Her house on Linden Street was enormous and beautiful, with white columns, a blue front door, an old oak tree, and rooms that seemed much bigger than anything I was used to. Mrs. Whitaker was around seventy, with short white hair, reading glasses, and a serious manner. She explained that she and her late husband had bought the house in 1971 and raised their daughter there. Her husband had died two years earlier, and although the house was now too large for one person, she refused to
In the kitchen, Mrs. Whitaker offered me one hundred dollars a week to clean every Thursday from nine until two. She also handed me a key to the house. I was surprised that she trusted me so quickly, but she explained that she had already called my references. My former boss had told her how I once drove forty minutes to return a patient’s lost wallet, and my neighbor had told her that I had watched her dog for two weeks without accepting payment. Mrs. Whitaker had decided I was trustworthy.
On my first Thursday, I arrived early and waited in my car until exactly nine. Inside, Mrs. Whitaker had left detailed instructions on the kitchen counter. I followed every word carefully. I scrubbed bathrooms, cleaned baseboards, dusted doorframes, washed the kitchen, and even cleaned the oven. When I dusted the piano, I carefully lifted every family photograph and returned it to exactly the same place.
