Mad Tom Spring: Those People

Making Your Bed

The cat was in the bag. It was a pillowcase actually and now she didn't know what to do with it. Teresa sighed heavily, pulled the sheet tight at the corner of the bed and tucked it neatly under the well-sprung mattress. She'd put the cat in the pillowcase after she'd backed over it with Lydia's car and now it was in the basement behind the washing machine until she could figure out what to do.

She hadn't done anything wrong. Kate was teaching her to drive and Lydia was

letting her use the car on the property to practice even though she didn't have her real

license yet. There were so many things to remember when you were driving a car, she just hadn't seen the cat. Lydia loved that cat; it was one of the feral cats they kept as mousers in the barn and it only had three legs, but it got around just fine. Her husband, George, wouldn't have it in the house but it came to the kitchen door every afternoon and Lydia sat with it on the patio, in her lap, feeding it salmon from a can with a little silver spoon. Of all the cats on this whole crazy farm, that was the one Teresa had hit. It figured.

She plumped the pillows on the bed and pulled up the spread. She was working in the Woodland Suite this morning. It was the only guestroom on the first floor and it was one that she especially liked. Tall windows all around let in plenty of light. From floor to windowsill, the walls were paneled in rich, dark wood with a printed ramble of ivy climbing the creamy wallpaper the rest of the way to the ceiling. Overstuffed chairs squatted here and there, green and soft, like big, mossy rocks. A fountain trickled water over small round stones in the corner and potted ferns cascaded everywhere. Bird nests, some with tiny eggs, were tucked like secrets around the room. It was rare and wonderful, a little hidden corner set apart. If she lived in a room like this she would be careful not to spoil it. Today it stank like old man.

She looked around the room in disgust. Every morning it was the same – clothes, towels, dirty dishes, trash on the floor; she could not understand. Old men like this professor were the worst, but most of the guests were just like him. The rooms were so beautiful yet they treated them like something to be used up and tossed away. Teresa sighed again and picked up another wet towel. She didn't mind cleaning and making other people's beds, but she did mind the feeling that she was part of the furniture, an accessory to the vacuum cleaner or the toilet brush that they'd rather not have to look at.

Still, she could hardly believe her luck. She and her mother and brother had been living in two small rooms above an upholstery shop with two cousins and a few other

immigrants. She'd been working nights at a convenience store since she graduated from high school last year, and even with her brother's income from the landscape crew, they barely made enough to get by. They sent money back too, as much as they could. Her

family wasn't illegal but they didn't know about the others so they still had to be careful. It made things even harder.

Her dream was to teach. That's how she'd met Lydia, at a training class to teach English as a second language. She and her brother had both learned English in school but ESL classes had made all the difference to her mom. Teresa wanted to be someone who made that kind of a difference. She'd been a good student in school, she knew she could do it, but without money and a car, college was out of the question. The ESL training was a place to start. She could walk there from the apartment and they were letting her pay a week at a time.

Lydia had latched on to Teresa in the very first class, taking her for coffee and coaxing her to talk. Teresa had been suspicious but Lydia was so sincere. Before long she'd given her a job, brought her home, installed her into the apartment in her own basement, and introduced her to the family. Sallie was a little cold, but the rest of them had gone out of their way to help, stocking the small kitchen with food, letting her use the laundry room, and teaching her to drive. Teresa had never met people like this; they made her uneasy, though she couldn't explain why. Sometimes she felt like a family pet, another stray animal they'd taken in, but they all meant well, they were very kind.

And she'd repaid that kindness by killing the cat. What had they learned in class last night? They'd been talking about English idioms which she found much more puzzling than Spanish ones. How could you be in a pickle and what did that have to do with being in

trouble? And why would you smack your own lips? That hardly seemed to imply you liked what you were eating, and it would hurt! There were so many - get cracking, caught with your pants down, pulling your leg - none of them made sense. You've made your bed and you'll have to lie in it. Wait - that was it; that was the one that fit. She'd put that cat in the bag and made her bed and now she would have to lie in it.

But the cat wasn't the worst thing. Not really. She could hardly breathe when she thought about the worst thing. If anyone here on the farm found out they would make her go away, she was sure of that. Very sure. They gave her an inch, she took a gallon and she didn't know which leg to stand on. She had no excuse, none at all.

"TERESA!" The big voice boomed from the kitchen door at the back of the house carrying clearly to the interior room in the front of the house where Teresa stood. You could say that for the Professor; his voice carried long distances, especially when he wanted something. Her nostrils flared; he was a rude man. They'd asked him over and over again not to use the kitchen door but he did it anyway. She was sure he was stealing food. He'd made a big fuss when he arrived about his special diet but the crusty plates she found every morning in his room told a different story. He'd been here now for nearly eleven days with no sign of leaving even though two weeks was the maximum stay.

Quickly, she tossed the pile of clothing and towels into her basket and balanced the dirty plates on top. She turned to leave just as the Professor got to the door. Too late, she fumed silently, berating herself for taking her time. She shouldn't have lingered. He stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame, setting his black case carefully next to his feet. He carried it with him everywhere but he never opened it up.

"Oh good. You found the things I left for the wash."

On the floor, Teresa scowled to herself. The guesthouse didn't have laundry service but Sallie had asked Teresa to humor him. She nodded and did her best to smile, wondering if she could push past him out the door. His mouth twitched in amusement, fingers absently smoothing his scruffy goatee.

"They good to you here?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Pay well?"

Teresa recoiled; it was none of his business how much she was paid. She didn't

answer.

He raised his hands, "Just asking. Don't get your feathers ruffled."

Voices drifted towards them from the upper floors as Sallie and Lydia headed down the stairs. The Professor turned and glanced up the steps then winked at Teresa and stepped aside.

"After you Chica," he said, gesturing with a courtly bow just as the older women reached the landing that led to the hall. Ducking past them all, Teresa escaped towards the kitchen with her basket of clothes.

Lydia caught the exchange and laughed. "So gallant," she said cheerfully, "Always the gentleman."

He inclined his head modestly and picked up his case. "At your service," he said and slipped into his room.