intruded, discretion—backing off and making an exit—seemed polite. It also seemed inhumane. Was I to behave as if I’d noticed nothing? “Can I do something for you?” I asked.
She shook her head back and forth, vigorously. “No,” she whispered. “No. Please. I handle this.”
I heard fear, but also a real plea for me to leave her alone. “Okay, I’ll—”
She put up a hand. “Wait—please, miss—don’t say to Mrs.
Fairchild.”
“Say that I—” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Somehow mentioning out loud that she was crying in the butler’s pantry made it worse. “—saw you?”
“Yes. You did not see me, yes? Please, is important.”
“Sure,” I said after a pause. “But are you positive there isn’t something I could do?”
“Nobody can help me. Nobody on the earth.”
“I could try.” I knew I should back out of that pantry and remove this scene from my mind. This really was none of my business. Or was it—in the way it was everybody’s business. There are no parables of the Half-Assed Samaritan who asked politely, then backed off.
“If you say to her I tell you anything, it makes worse. That you saw me cry? That makes worse.” She drilled her words into my skull with her eyes and intensity. “She makes worse.”
She. My client. She who gets upset about women’s names and intimidates the investigator she hired.
“Two years I work for her,” Batya said softly. “Two years, day and night. I live here. She says, ‘Batya you are best. Stay with me.’
My aunt, she watches my baby.”
My surprise must have shown, because Batya’s baby was in-escapably, hugely here.
47
GILLIAN ROBERTS
“Other baby,” she said. “He is two years, but he needs medicine.” She shook her head, as if forbidding that child’s sickness to be true. “I see him Sunday only. She feeds me, gives me room, I buy his medicine, but . . .” She grimaced and shook her head.
“Money?” I whispered. “She pays you, doesn’t she?”
She didn’t look at me now. She shrugged, and looked away, and I had to lean close to hear her say, “Not so I can live somewhere else. Not so I can live with him. She say that is all she can pay. She is widow on—how you say—always the same money.”
“A fixed income?”
“Fixed. Yes. She says someday, when she dies, she is leaving me money. Is all big lie. Mr. Leo, he’s rich. He gives her everything.
She gives me nothing.”
I looked at her, an eggplant-shaped woman, face wet with tears.
“And now this,” I said softly. “Are you crying because of this baby?”
She looked up at me and sniffled. “For both babies. I ask Mrs.
Fairchild for more money. Only what other people get. Is fair, what I ask. I work hard for her. I cook, shop, clean, help with the sickness. I take good care.” She put her hands protectively around her belly.
I thought of how many positions there were like this one, how many ill and elderly people could have used Batya’s services. It would be easy enough for her to quit, to find a new job or accept public assistance. Unless . . . “Are you a legal alien, Batya? Do you have a green card?”
She looked up at me, her mouth open and her eyes wide and wild. Her worst fears had been realized.
“I’m not going to tell anybody. I wanted to know what she . . .
Is that it?” The threat of deportation is a powerful form of blackmail and, apparently, of keeping virtual slaves from fleeing.
“My husband left. Disappeared. Mrs. Fairchild, she says it doesn’t matter. Is my fault.” She clutched her belly and rocked.
“Don’t panic,” I said. “Let me find out what can be done. Just 48
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
take care of yourself and your baby and don’t panic—and I won’t say a word to Mrs. Fairchild.”
“Or to—”
“To anybody. I promise.”
“But she—she—” She shook her head and was silent.
I tiptoed out, the echo of that she hissing through my brain.
49
Five
WHENI returned to
She shook her head back and forth, vigorously. “No,” she whispered. “No. Please. I handle this.”
I heard fear, but also a real plea for me to leave her alone. “Okay, I’ll—”
She put up a hand. “Wait—please, miss—don’t say to Mrs.
Fairchild.”
“Say that I—” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Somehow mentioning out loud that she was crying in the butler’s pantry made it worse. “—saw you?”
“Yes. You did not see me, yes? Please, is important.”
“Sure,” I said after a pause. “But are you positive there isn’t something I could do?”
“Nobody can help me. Nobody on the earth.”
“I could try.” I knew I should back out of that pantry and remove this scene from my mind. This really was none of my business. Or was it—in the way it was everybody’s business. There are no parables of the Half-Assed Samaritan who asked politely, then backed off.
“If you say to her I tell you anything, it makes worse. That you saw me cry? That makes worse.” She drilled her words into my skull with her eyes and intensity. “She makes worse.”
She. My client. She who gets upset about women’s names and intimidates the investigator she hired.
“Two years I work for her,” Batya said softly. “Two years, day and night. I live here. She says, ‘Batya you are best. Stay with me.’
My aunt, she watches my baby.”
My surprise must have shown, because Batya’s baby was in-escapably, hugely here.
47
GILLIAN ROBERTS
“Other baby,” she said. “He is two years, but he needs medicine.” She shook her head, as if forbidding that child’s sickness to be true. “I see him Sunday only. She feeds me, gives me room, I buy his medicine, but . . .” She grimaced and shook her head.
“Money?” I whispered. “She pays you, doesn’t she?”
She didn’t look at me now. She shrugged, and looked away, and I had to lean close to hear her say, “Not so I can live somewhere else. Not so I can live with him. She say that is all she can pay. She is widow on—how you say—always the same money.”
“A fixed income?”
“Fixed. Yes. She says someday, when she dies, she is leaving me money. Is all big lie. Mr. Leo, he’s rich. He gives her everything.
She gives me nothing.”
I looked at her, an eggplant-shaped woman, face wet with tears.
“And now this,” I said softly. “Are you crying because of this baby?”
She looked up at me and sniffled. “For both babies. I ask Mrs.
Fairchild for more money. Only what other people get. Is fair, what I ask. I work hard for her. I cook, shop, clean, help with the sickness. I take good care.” She put her hands protectively around her belly.
I thought of how many positions there were like this one, how many ill and elderly people could have used Batya’s services. It would be easy enough for her to quit, to find a new job or accept public assistance. Unless . . . “Are you a legal alien, Batya? Do you have a green card?”
She looked up at me, her mouth open and her eyes wide and wild. Her worst fears had been realized.
“I’m not going to tell anybody. I wanted to know what she . . .
Is that it?” The threat of deportation is a powerful form of blackmail and, apparently, of keeping virtual slaves from fleeing.
“My husband left. Disappeared. Mrs. Fairchild, she says it doesn’t matter. Is my fault.” She clutched her belly and rocked.
“Don’t panic,” I said. “Let me find out what can be done. Just 48
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
take care of yourself and your baby and don’t panic—and I won’t say a word to Mrs. Fairchild.”
“Or to—”
“To anybody. I promise.”
“But she—she—” She shook her head and was silent.
I tiptoed out, the echo of that she hissing through my brain.
49
Five
WHENI returned to
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