If, like me, you have an assortment of story rattling around in your head, it can be rather haunting until you have the whole of it out, out of your head that is. This particular story has been haunting me for a number of years, and despite the months I have tried to get it all out, there is more that needs to be sorted out. I am obsessed by two characters, who are flawed beyond hope, yet I can’t let them drown in their own misery. I keep rooting for them despite their own self-destructive antics. They are survivors. Jaded and scarred but survivors all the same. Tonight, let me introduce Mrs. Hendricks and Helen.

Working title: Mrs Hendricks & Company

Chapter 1

The Arrival

The only motivation I had was to leave my apartment and fast. So when I read the advertisement that stated “Small apartment in exchange for small jobs. Calls only accepted in the evenings. 567-7661” I tore the small square out of the newspaper in seconds flat and planned to pack up out of the shit hole I was currently living in if only I’d be lucky enough to get the opportunity. My current living situation had been a disaster from the start. Thinking I had something going with that loser. Believing him when he said he would take care of me. At 19 I was shit for brains and here was the proof. But I told myself, holding that torn piece of newsprint, here was my one way ticket straight out of this jam.

The whole afternoon was spent daydreaming my escape. Playing it cool though. I mostly smoked a whole pack of Marlboro’s waiting for 7:00 pm to roll around, and when it did, I slipped out, telling Johnny I needed a stroll. He was four beers in and slumped over after a day of hauling sheetrock so there was no worry he’d even ask to come. I walked the two blocks over to the diner to the pay phone and dialed up the number. It rang for 10 minutes straight before I finally hung up. I kicked the door open and pocketed my dime. Disappointed but not ready to give up, I decided to walk around downtown for a few minutes and try again. Past the drugstore, the camera shop, the department store, then crossed over between the pet shot and the Five & Dime down the side street. It was one of those perfect summer nights when the birds were making their evening racket as they flew from tree top to tree top overhead. Up past the liquor store and the backside of the bank until I was right back where I started from, I slipped in the dime and redialed the 7 digits. This time, almost immediately, a breathless hello came from the receiver. It took me less than a second to respond. 

“Um, hello.” I managed a hint of confidence, “ I am calling about the ad in the paper.”

Again, in the softest voice, as if there were no breath involved I heard a faint, “Oh yes. Do come and talk to me.”

“Sure,” my brain was taking forever to process this, so I blurted out, “Now?”

“Yes, sure, now…”

And just like that I found myself walking straight up Cherry to Park Street and over one block to 15 Highland Avenue. There it was. A turn of the century southern plantation style white columned three story home within the gated property. She has mentioned the small apartment was right over the garage, and hadn’t been updated since before she owned the place, but as far as she could tell, was still in “perfect working order.” She said, “Let yourself in, take a look at the place, and if you’re interested,” she directed, “ring the bell at the main house. Otherwise just go on your way.” 

As a kid I had seen these houses high on any hill all my life but never imagined walking onto their property with manicured shrubs and green lawns, towering oaks lit like statuaries. Moving from foster home to yet another, always in a shoddy area of any random town, I barely let myself imagine what life would be like calling one of these majestic colonials home. Sure, during grammar school, as the scholarship kid, I momentarily sat next to the children of these rich families, but without fail, they would fawn some allergy or something about my smell or look and get themselves moved. 

One month in and somehow the three kids who were there on charity were all sitting in the back row, the nun in front of the class barely remembering our names. We were paraded out when parents did a walk through or when donations were requested, but it wasn’t about educating us, that was for certain. I couldn’t read until fourth grade and that was only due to the year I bunked with another foster kid who taught me. Her nose always in what looked like a drab and battered book, yet I soon realized, her mind escaped to islands and pirates and finding the biggest cave. Her passion for reading and the ability to transcend our misery haunted me and propelled me to keep trying to learn. Eventually I read everything on the shelf and after that tried my hand writing imaginative stories of my own. There would always be an adventure with a pack of wild kids who crept out at night to solve all the world’s wrongs. 

By sixth grade one of the nuns, Sister Rita, took notice, and actually pushed to get me into the higher tracked classes in middle school. Of course her efforts failed, but she swore to keep me at their level and try again in high school. I wanted to believe her, but really it was more for her sake than my own. I knew my destiny, and greatness wasn’t a part of that, this I would bank on. My dad drank himself to sleep every night after prison, all due to his guilty negligence and his drunk driving that killed my mother and siblings. No one left to want me. Only the state, and they were only half sure I was a worthy investment.

As I made my way in the early dusk, I found the light switch just inside the stairwell to the second floor above the garage. The stairs were steep and narrow but sturdy. Once at the top the room opened into a large rectangular, just like the footprint below. On the far wall I saw a double bed with an iron frame and a small dresser tucked under an eve. There was a small fridge and a two-burner stove, a few cupboards surrounding a sink and a few odd pieces of furniture placed around a braided rug. The light had turned on the one overheard bulb but there were a few lamps, a half-filled bookcase, and I could make out a small bathroom nearest the stairs. She called it right. It was as if nothing had been moved in three decades, but it all worked. I turned the water on in the sink, opened the closet door, tried the lamp, gave the bed a bounce, and considered it a lucky draw. For one quick minute I turned and caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. It caused me to stop still. That shiner I had been trying to hide all week was still visible, as was the puffiness in my top lip. If she was any kind of woman she’d know what I was running from, and how desperate I was for this place to work out, so I opened my purse, and applied another layer of foundation, and a new sheen of lipstick before heading over the big house. I wanted her to like me. Not just feel sorry for me. 

The walkway from the garage to the house was gravel, and it made a sound that reminded me of being at camp or sometime long ago rustic place lodged in my brain. There were only a few rooms with lights on, but you could still see the majesty of the 1865 house. I walked up the six steps to the front door and found the doorbell on the right. After a few minutes I rang again. Was this going to be one of those too good to be true moments I wondered? And at that precise moment, the door was pulled open. There stood a young woman, possibly even my age, although not near as jaded. Not a girly girl by any means, in fact, she was quite the tomboy. Her curly hair cut short, loose jeans and a baggy flannel hid every curve she might possess. Her scrubbed earnest face was shiny with teen oils and behind her thick glasses were muddy brown eyes. She was not attractive in any possible light, and standing there, with a grand entry beyond her, she appeared as a paradox. Something insignificant amongst the grandeur.

After a moment of awkward staring, she reached out her hand, “I’m Beth. I think you are here to see my mother. About the apartment, right? She mentioned something about your call. But we are still wondering who placed the ad? Do you happen to have a copy for me to see? It’s sort of a mystery, not really sure what any of this means. Were you up there already?” 

“Yes, yes, I took a look, it seems perfectly fine.” Could she see the panic in my eyes I wondered? I pushed every emotion down and said, “I’m interested. Can I come in? Is your mother home? She indicated…” I handed her the scrape of newspaper from my pocket, and after glancing briefly she opened the door wider.

Beth stepped back and motioned me in, “Yes, she’s upstairs, she said to bring you up. But let’s be clear, the rest of my family is going to have some questions for you if this is really going to happen.”

Stepping into such splendor after the simplicity of the apartment, never mind the terrible flat I was currently living in, made this moment surreal. Marble underfoot and crystal chandeliers overhead with carved moldings arching the large doorways. I had never been the best at hiding my feelings, but more than anything I wanted this stranger to think I was just an average person, one used to walking on oriental rugs and seeing oil landscapes hung between draped windows. 

But how could she not doubt that I didn’t belong? I was one breath away from panic, here in this home of refinement and contentment I had only seen in magazines. Where was the chaos kept?

The mahogany railing felt smooth to the touch and I let that be my touchstone as I followed Beth up the stairs. The house, as big as it was, seemed empty, as if we were only ghosts floating up, voiceless, noiseless, creatures with nothing but ether moving us upward. I was glad for her silence at the moment, trying to plan out what I would say, what I wouldn’t, as we rounded the hallway to a final double door. 

“This is my mother’s room. I’ll leave you to it,” and like that the plainly dressed daughter moved down the hallway and closed her door behind. 

I knocked with two small raps. The faintest of voices came from the other side. A husky smoker’s voice directed an understated “Come in come in” and with that I pushed open the door. 

Not a bedroom, but a dreamy boudoir, all apricot and violet, silk and velvet, seating around a fireplace and over in front of the double windows, where she sat at her dressing table, a gold lacquered mirror from which I watched her apply black eyeliner with surgical precision. There was a half-filled martini glass at her elbow and a smoldering cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Her platinum hair was teased up high and gathered into a French twist, and even though her caftan was flowing and voluminous it did not hide her many curves but gave them even more meaning. Before she moved on to her second eye, she took a meaningful sip of her drink, a lingering puff of her cigarette and let her gaze drift up to mine. She motioned me closer.

“Come in my dear. Have you just arrived? Did you pop up to the apartment? I haven’t been there in many years, but I have heard it is still satisfactory for a person who is looking for such a retreat.” She paused to both inhale and then exhale. “Is that true, would you be comfortable there my dear?” This prattling could go on for hours I realized listening to her, in slow, measured increments, punctuated by another line across her lid, or her lips, or a pin in her hair, or even a feathery brush across her cleavage, her eyes moving up and down the mirror with a critical expression holding steady her features except for the chatter coming from her red mouth.

“It’s perfect. I am happy to say, but what are the terms or expectations you might want of me?” I managed to hold her attention for only a few seconds but thought this just fine since avoiding any very serious questions would allow me to sort out what my answers might be if asked. 

Her toilet complete, she turned to face me. It was as if a movie star materialized in front of me. I had not really noticed the lighting up to that point, but now, as she tilted toward me, I could see it was as soft and flattering as any aging starlet would demand by 47. Nothing came directly on her without a filter, a shade or a slant of the light. She glowed in the semi-lite room. Apparently she was delighted I found the place to my liking, and went on to explain that my duties would be to keep her company for a few hours a day, maybe help her weed out her closet or drive her to an appointment, or just lend a hand. I wanted to ask, can’t your daughter Beth help with these menial tasks, but then I stopped myself. A free place was what I was there for and I meant to take it.

“I could move in tomorrow if that suits you? “ I asked as she lit another cigarette and turned back to her mirror. She sprayed some perfume around her throat and the smallest of smiles turned up the corners of her mouth as the scent curled into her nose. 

“Tomorrow?” She wasn’t really asking me or anyone in particular, she was just asking, like it was some sort of existential question, wondering if there was such a possibility.

“Yes, tomorrow. I will arrive with my suitcase tomorrow midday and be all set to help you in the afternoon, if that suits you.” I stood to punctuate the finality of my remark.

She had tilted the last of her martini into her mouth before she said, “Of course my dear, tomorrow. Do come, it will be lovely. Please let yourself out,” more measured breath, “and ask Frances to come to me. You can find her in the kitchen,” she pursed her lips up slightly to pencil around once more.

As I made my way down the carpeted hallway highlighted by a family portrait, I stopped to gaze at the largest, showcasing a much younger but less dramatically coiffed Mrs. Hendricks, with two young daughters positioned on tiered cushions on either side of her flouncy skirt, a man in a dark suit sat in an oak and leather swivel chair to their left with two gawky boys on either side. His tie matched the bow in her hair, that same apricot that filled her bedroom, both of the little girls wore matching dresses with the same color sash, although one clearly wore it better than the other. They appeared to be the same height and possible age, although nothing else about them was similar. One wore thick glasses, the other none at all. One had short curly dark hair while the other had layers of summer yellow banana curls hanging just below her shoulders. One sat stiffly, with a strained awkward half smile, clearly covering braces, while the other had big straight teeth filling a wide and cheery disposition. This child sat closer to her mother’s skirt and I noticed her fingers touching the apricot silk. 

The boys, like their father, sported apricot ties and dark suits, and these two were identical. If the girls were eight, these boys looked to be on the crest of teenagers, a creeping sullenness in their slouch, their half-combed hair, their smirks. They did not have the pride their father held, but one could sense they would in later years grow into it, but their’s would be without merit. The portrait wasn’t life size, but showcased as much of their family grandeur as possible within the gilded frame. A waist high table stood right under the painting, with a blue vase and a dozen roses. Apricot and fresh. So, this was the Hendricks I thought. Perhaps a decade or so back, but still, where had they all scattered to? With that I heard a creak on the step, I turned and saw a young woman, blond, with tight jeans and flouncy top making her way right up the stairs. Her breath was laboring as she mounted one then the next, as if she were 80, but when she lifted her face to mine I could see she was barely 25 with mascara trailed down in rivulets over her bony cheeks. 

“Oh hi, I was just chatting with, um, Mrs. Hendricks. I’m just leaving…” I stepped back as she passed by me with little interest in what I was muttering but like her mother she smelled like booze and cigarettes and French perfume as she swept past me towards her mother’s door. As she was about to turn the knob, I watched her pull her hand away, turn her head down and back to me for a second, and make a small fist to knock in the middle of the door. She rapped three or four times lightly, almost in morse code, like a signature signal, then she leaned to listen. With recognition from within, she shot an accomplished smile at me, opened the door quickly and closed it behind her. I recognized her teeth from her portrait instantly. I was pretty good at deciphering family dynamics and easily noticed how this pretty one gained entrance while Beth, who looked like she might have had some useful skills, didn’t even try.

There is much more written on the page, but still plenty to discover. These ladies have spunk. I really love that about them. Wish me luck. I hope to do them justice.