Page 19 of The Housemaid Is Watching

I glance over my shoulder, at the window where moonlight pours into our bedroom. “When are you going to put in those blinds?”

“Tomorrow. Ipromise.”

I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the sensation of my husband’s touch and then his lips on my neck. But with my eyes closed, I become aware of something else. A sound from somewhere else in the house.

My eyes fly open. “Do you hear that?” I ask him.

He lifts his head from my neck. “Hear what?”

“That sound. It sounds like… something scraping.”

It’s a very disturbing sound. It almost sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Again and again and again.

And it’s coming from somewhere within the house.

He grins at me. “Maybe is man with hook for hand on roof?”

I smack the top of his head. “I’m serious! Whatisthat?”

We both lie there for a moment, listening. And of course, that’s when the sound stops.

“I do not hear it,” Enzo says.

“Well, it stopped.”

“Oh.”

“But whatwasit?”

“Was probably the house settling.”

“Housesettling?” I make a face at him. “That’s not a thing. You just made that up right now.”

“Yes, is a thing. And anyway, are you the big expert on houses? Houses make noises. It is a house noise. No big deal.”

I’m not sure I agree, but at the same time, I can’t very well argue now that the noise has stopped.

He raises his eyebrows. “So… may Icontinue?”

I’m not feeling super amorous after listening to that scraping sound coming from within the house, coupled with the completely exposed window. But Enzo is already kissing my neck again, and I have to say, it is extremely hard to ask him to stop.

TEN

Thursday is my morning off.

The kids walk to the bus stop by themselves, like they have been doing since yesterday. I’m sure Janice is traumatized when the two of them show up all alone, but I’m not too worried about it. I do watch them from one of the windows in the front of the house (which now has blinds—thank you, Enzo), and I watch the bus collect them and carry them away to school.

They’re fine. Motherhood is a state of constant low-grade worrying, but I refuse to be the type of woman who puts her child on a leash. At some point, you have to let go even if it drives you nuts.

Once they’re gone, the house is so quiet. Ada generally keeps to herself, but Nico is always a whirlwind of activity. When he’s not home, the house seems deathly still. It was quiet back when we were in a small apartment, but now that we are in a larger house (albeitcozy), it’s so much more quiet. I think our house has echoes.Echoes.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe I’ll make myself some breakfast and read a book.

I walk over to the kitchen and pull out a carton of eggs. As I get older, I’ve been trying to eat healthy, and I’ve heard eggsare pretty healthy if you don’t fry them in oil or butter. (Which seems patently unfair, because that’s what makes them taste the best.) So I’ve started the water boiling for my oil/butter-free egg when the doorbell rings.

I hurry over to the front door and fling it open without checking who is out there, because that’s the sort of neighborhood I live in now. Back when we lived in the Bronx, I never opened the front door without checking who was waiting on the other side. If it was someone I didn’t recognize, I demanded ID to be held up to the peephole. But this neighborhood is so safe. I don’t have to worry about anything anymore.

But I am extremely surprised to see Martha—Suzette’s cleaning woman—on the other side of the door, clothed in one of her flowered print dresses paired with a crisp white apron, a pair of rubber gloves in one hand and some sort of advanced mop in the other.