Sarah loved her children visiting from university for the weekend, even though white towels became bruised with smudges of mascara, jars and bottles repelled their lids, bins spat out litter and tables were tattooed with coffee rings.
After a clear-up that took all morning, Sarah sank back into her couch, balancing her tea and biscuits, and admired the order she’d re-established. Until a tap at the front door disturbed her.
“Afternoon, Sarah.”
Sarah would have preferred it if Michael, the window cleaner, called her Mrs Jackson. She had tried to call him Mr Simmons – the name on his van – but he’d made a joke about his dad being retired and insisted she call him Mike. They compromised with Michael.
“Can you refill my bucket?” Michael asked with a polite smile. He always asked for fresh water now, to Sarah’s delight. It was a joy to her when the sunlight bounced through her streak-free windows. “Have you been spring cleaning?” he asked.
“Yes, the kids were home this weekend.”
Michael followed her through to the kitchen. “How are they? Working hard?”
“Fine, I think. The only thing they worry about is me. Amanda suggested I consider internet dating. She thinks I’m short on company.”
“Are you?”
“Not at all.”
Michael had been cleaning Sarah’s windows for five years. For four of them they’d barely spoken. Sometimes she’d sit inside a room reading, while he worked outside. Sarah didn’t intend to be rude; she just didn’t know what to say to him. What could they have in common? Then, about a year ago, he’d asked for some clean water, and they’d shared a few words. Now they had a cup of tea together every week. Michael was easy to talk to.
He knew all about her children’s exams, he understood her anxiety about moving her father into an assisted-living flat. Michael knew a lot about Sarah’s life. She knew nothing of his. He wore a wedding ring. Any inquiry from a divorcee might seem inappropriate. It might also be inappropriate to admit that yes, sometimes she was short of a certain type of company.
Sarah nervously searched around for a new topic of conversation. Suddenly Michael seemed very big and very male, standing in her neat, gleaming kitchen. His eyes settled on Sarah’s novel.
“It’s the book group’s choice,” she said.
Michael picked up the book and started to read the blurb. Irrationally, Sarah felt embarrassed. Was it the sort of book he’d enjoy? It was very deep and complex.
“Any good?” he asked.
“I’m enjoying it.”
“Why?”
Sarah loved books. She enjoyed exploring the world from the comfort of her sofa. But suddenly she found it impossible to articulate.
“Oh, it’s... unexpected,” she mumbled. “Biscuit?”
“I think your window cleaner sounds interesting,” said Cath, with a grin that Sarah dreaded.
“Let’s stick to the novel,” she replied. It frustrated her that every month the book group followed the same chaotic course; wine was poured, gossip flowed, the book was forgotten.
“We can’t start yet,” said Julie. “We’re expecting a new member.”
The worst thing about the gossip was that the book group’s whole purpose seemed to be finding Sarah a new man. But it was difficult for Sarah to imagine meeting anyone. When asked what she wanted in a man, she’d say she wanted someone steady, financially secure, diligent.
“Dull, you mean,” objected Cath.
“I mean someone like Liam.”
“But Liam had an affair and left you,” said Cath. “And anyway I think you secretly fancy your window cleaner.”
The door bell rang.
“Can I introduce Mike Simmons,” said Julie.
Seeing Michael out of context and in smarter clothes startled Sarah. He startled the other ladies, too; they sat with their backs straight and chests out, grinning and wide-eyed. Before Sarah had a chance to tell the others that they knew each other, Cath, surprisingly, started to talk about the book.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to read it, have you, Mike?”
“I only picked it up last week but I managed to finish it this morning.”
“Good going. It’s chunky, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but fascinating. The characters are so complex yet completely believable.”
For the rest of the evening, Sarah listened as Michael enthused about books. He was familiar with classics and contemporary works; he mesmerized her with his perceptiveness and confidence. How had she known him for five years yet not known him at all?
“You were quiet this evening,” said Michael in the hallway. “I thought you liked the book.”
“I did. It’s just that…”
“She’s shy,” added Cath, fortified by half a bottle of wine. “Are you married?”
“Widowed. Nine years ago,” he said. “Look, maybe we could go for a coffee,” he added, turning back to Sarah.
“Then you can tell me your thoughts on the book without a crowd.”
“Don’t waste your time, Mike. You’re not her type,” laughed Cath.
Sarah froze.
“She has a type?” he asked, with a curious grin.
“Yes, she’s after a bit of rough. She fancies her window cleaner. You’re far too smart.”
“That’s interesting,” said Michael. “But you know what they say – never judge a book by its cover.”
 |
I often think of her in the autumn, as I rake leaves or hang storm windows. Her name was Gladys Mahaney, although she was always Mrs. Mahaney to me. She weighed maybe 90 or 100 pounds, and she’d keep her arms folded when she came outside to inspect my work, and it’s been a quarter-century or so since I last saw her.
Yet as I do the jobs we all do around the house — as I sometimes cut corners to save a little time — I know exactly how she would respond:
Unless a job is done right, it isn’t done.
Mrs. Mahaney lived in a small, one-story white house about a block away from my childhood home. She and her husband had the place built, probably long before World War II. He was a banker, if I recall correctly, and he’d been dead a long time before I started working in the yard. In the living room, Mrs. Mahaney had photos that showed her husband with some beautiful Collies. It took me a while to understand why those photos held no children.
Memories fade, blur or turn into myth as we grow older, but I remember — distinctly — meeting Mrs. Mahaney. I was in junior high, and her street offered a “cut through” to a neighborhood where we used to play ball. She was standing in the yard one day as I walked past. She was tiny, white-haired, and when our eyes met, I wondered if there was a problem. I could tell she wanted to say something, but she was hesitant, fighting her own instincts.
“Excuse me,” she finally said. “Would you be interested in some lawn work?”
Relieved, I told her, “Sure.” I could always use a few dollars. How hard could it be?
I had absolutely no clue.
By that point, Mrs. Mahaney was deep into her 70s, and she kept her hair piled high atop her head, and she demanded absolute perfection in her yard. In autumn, that meant putting up the storm windows she kept in the garage, each one labeled and stacked in precise order. Once the screens came down, every window in the house had to be cleaned. I assumed it would be easy enough. I got a bucket of water, a few rags and some Windex, and I thought: Maybe an hour, and I’ll be playing touch football with my friends.
Arms folded, Mrs. Mahaney explained differently.
She showed me, by her standards, how to wash a window. You start off by cleaning it thoroughly with a dry cloth, she said, or else you’re just “spreading mud on glass.” Once that’s done, you use wet paper towels to scrub the window — rags, she said, leave behind fibers and threads — and finally, only then, you use Windex to bring the shine.
Done her way, the job took three times as long. My friends would stop by, take in the scene and sadly wander away.
But the windows glistened. Decades later, I taught my children to clean glass as I learned the job from Mrs. Mahaney.
For her, any task involved similar discipline. When I mowed the lawn, she’d order me to drag the mower backward for the five rows or so closest to her garden; if you’re careless, she said, the mower spreads weeds among the blossoms. The gutters had to be cleaned exactly so, and the sidewalks always needed to be edged, and the leaves in the fall had to go into neat piles.
Still, the work kept me in money for the movies, and it led to jobs with other retirees who lived along the street, and I kept going back. I began to feel mingled gratitude and responsibility toward this tiny woman, who always dressed impeccably, as if prepared for a work day in an office.
As the years went by, she let down her guard, just a bit. She’d occasionally make me a sandwich for lunch, and I began to learn a little of her story. When she was a young woman, Mrs. Mahaney became dangerously ill. The doctors told her she had tuberculosis. They performed surgery to collapse one of her lungs, then sent her to a sanitarium to recover.
At that time, she had yet to marry her husband. They had been dating for years, but had not scheduled a wedding. Other men, she said, might have deserted her, especially after realizing she’d lost any chance of having children. He kept the faith. He routinely made the long drive to visit her. When she was finally allowed to go home, the couple got married and built a life, with their new house and their Collies.
Then they grew old, her husband died and her own strength began to fail.
One day, grudgingly, she asked for help from a kid in the street.
That kid worked for her as he went from junior high, to high school and on to college. I still tended the yard throughout those years, until the world called and the time came for me to move away. I said goodbye to Mrs. Mahaney, and we exchanged Christmas cards and the occasional phone call from afar. When she died, I didn’t hear about it until long after the funeral. They buried her with her husband in St. Mary’s Cemetery, the same graveyard that holds my mother and my father.
When I’m there, when I can, I stop by Mrs. Mahaney’s grave. The duties, these days, are pretty simple: I pull out any tall grass near her stone, and I use my hands to brush the dust from her name.
Yet as I do the jobs we all do around the house — as I sometimes cut corners to save a little time — I know exactly how she would respond:
Unless a job is done right, it isn’t done.
Mrs. Mahaney lived in a small, one-story white house about a block away from my childhood home. She and her husband had the place built, probably long before World War II. He was a banker, if I recall correctly, and he’d been dead a long time before I started working in the yard. In the living room, Mrs. Mahaney had photos that showed her husband with some beautiful Collies. It took me a while to understand why those photos held no children.
Memories fade, blur or turn into myth as we grow older, but I remember — distinctly — meeting Mrs. Mahaney. I was in junior high, and her street offered a “cut through” to a neighborhood where we used to play ball. She was standing in the yard one day as I walked past. She was tiny, white-haired, and when our eyes met, I wondered if there was a problem. I could tell she wanted to say something, but she was hesitant, fighting her own instincts.
“Excuse me,” she finally said. “Would you be interested in some lawn work?”
Relieved, I told her, “Sure.” I could always use a few dollars. How hard could it be?
I had absolutely no clue.
By that point, Mrs. Mahaney was deep into her 70s, and she kept her hair piled high atop her head, and she demanded absolute perfection in her yard. In autumn, that meant putting up the storm windows she kept in the garage, each one labeled and stacked in precise order. Once the screens came down, every window in the house had to be cleaned. I assumed it would be easy enough. I got a bucket of water, a few rags and some Windex, and I thought: Maybe an hour, and I’ll be playing touch football with my friends.
Arms folded, Mrs. Mahaney explained differently.
She showed me, by her standards, how to wash a window. You start off by cleaning it thoroughly with a dry cloth, she said, or else you’re just “spreading mud on glass.” Once that’s done, you use wet paper towels to scrub the window — rags, she said, leave behind fibers and threads — and finally, only then, you use Windex to bring the shine.
Done her way, the job took three times as long. My friends would stop by, take in the scene and sadly wander away.
But the windows glistened. Decades later, I taught my children to clean glass as I learned the job from Mrs. Mahaney.
For her, any task involved similar discipline. When I mowed the lawn, she’d order me to drag the mower backward for the five rows or so closest to her garden; if you’re careless, she said, the mower spreads weeds among the blossoms. The gutters had to be cleaned exactly so, and the sidewalks always needed to be edged, and the leaves in the fall had to go into neat piles.
Still, the work kept me in money for the movies, and it led to jobs with other retirees who lived along the street, and I kept going back. I began to feel mingled gratitude and responsibility toward this tiny woman, who always dressed impeccably, as if prepared for a work day in an office.
As the years went by, she let down her guard, just a bit. She’d occasionally make me a sandwich for lunch, and I began to learn a little of her story. When she was a young woman, Mrs. Mahaney became dangerously ill. The doctors told her she had tuberculosis. They performed surgery to collapse one of her lungs, then sent her to a sanitarium to recover.
At that time, she had yet to marry her husband. They had been dating for years, but had not scheduled a wedding. Other men, she said, might have deserted her, especially after realizing she’d lost any chance of having children. He kept the faith. He routinely made the long drive to visit her. When she was finally allowed to go home, the couple got married and built a life, with their new house and their Collies.
Then they grew old, her husband died and her own strength began to fail.
One day, grudgingly, she asked for help from a kid in the street.
That kid worked for her as he went from junior high, to high school and on to college. I still tended the yard throughout those years, until the world called and the time came for me to move away. I said goodbye to Mrs. Mahaney, and we exchanged Christmas cards and the occasional phone call from afar. When she died, I didn’t hear about it until long after the funeral. They buried her with her husband in St. Mary’s Cemetery, the same graveyard that holds my mother and my father.
When I’m there, when I can, I stop by Mrs. Mahaney’s grave. The duties, these days, are pretty simple: I pull out any tall grass near her stone, and I use my hands to brush the dust from her name.
