She was one of those women of indeterminate age. Even in her 20s, she’d looked old; worn out, she thought - maybe because her wardrobe hadn’t changed in years. Loose-fitting shift dresses with pockets and subdued cotton prints - brown loafers with worn heels - the little gold watch her mother had given her. No makeup, not even lipstick.
But it didn’t matter, she supposed. No one expected a cleaning lady to dress up. When she started working at the church many years before, she still had a glimmer of hope someone would think she was special enough to want to date.
It had happened once or twice. There was that boy who used to hang around and watch her. He stuttered so badly she didn’t think he could ask her out, but he finally spat out some words about dinner. She doesn’t remember where they went, just that he disappeared after the first encounter.
And now, after 30 years of cleaning the rectory. Father Giles - the latest in a long line to live in this tiny house. Mostly, disgruntled priests who wanted the comfort and prestige of a megachurch. Not this backwoods locale the Diocese refused to close down.
There are too many secrets in any house which are impossible to hide. The stains on the sheets, empty cigarette packages, and vodka bottles hidden at the bottom of the trashcan, which testified she was not the only one who dreaded each long lonely night.
Between masses, she cleaned the chapel, sweeping the wooden floors, running her feather duster over faded hymnals, and picking up collection basket dropped coins, which never made their way to the poor. Her hands were busy with brooms and cloths, so she dropped the loose change in her pockets. The coins clinked as she walked. She knew children made fun of her for that clinky sound. “Old Mrs. Lugs Nuts,” they whispered, more concerned with their juvenile cruelty than her marital status. Probably the adults made fun too, but she didn’t care. Most of her world was so silent; the metallic sound reminded her of spontaneous bird songs, vibrant and full of hope.
Her habit of jangling the coins in her pocket as she entered the room also saved her on more than one occasion – prevented her from learning secrets dangerous to know - whispered affairs, unpaid bills, brutal husbands or wives. She never understood why they felt the need to tell supposed friends. “This is just between you and me,” they said. But the gossip value was too high, and the friends traded these secrets for others.
She never told anyone - not about dirty sheets, unfaithful husbands, or the stuttering boy who once thought she was special. Instead, she continued to lead her small quiet life, cleaning the pews, counting the hours, and jingling the coins in her pockets so she knew she was still alive.
— opelikakat
But it didn’t matter, she supposed. No one expected a cleaning lady to dress up. When she started working at the church many years before, she still had a glimmer of hope someone would think she was special enough to want to date.
It had happened once or twice. There was that boy who used to hang around and watch her. He stuttered so badly she didn’t think he could ask her out, but he finally spat out some words about dinner. She doesn’t remember where they went, just that he disappeared after the first encounter.
And now, after 30 years of cleaning the rectory. Father Giles - the latest in a long line to live in this tiny house. Mostly, disgruntled priests who wanted the comfort and prestige of a megachurch. Not this backwoods locale the Diocese refused to close down.
There are too many secrets in any house which are impossible to hide. The stains on the sheets, empty cigarette packages, and vodka bottles hidden at the bottom of the trashcan, which testified she was not the only one who dreaded each long lonely night.
Between masses, she cleaned the chapel, sweeping the wooden floors, running her feather duster over faded hymnals, and picking up collection basket dropped coins, which never made their way to the poor. Her hands were busy with brooms and cloths, so she dropped the loose change in her pockets. The coins clinked as she walked. She knew children made fun of her for that clinky sound. “Old Mrs. Lugs Nuts,” they whispered, more concerned with their juvenile cruelty than her marital status. Probably the adults made fun too, but she didn’t care. Most of her world was so silent; the metallic sound reminded her of spontaneous bird songs, vibrant and full of hope.
Her habit of jangling the coins in her pocket as she entered the room also saved her on more than one occasion – prevented her from learning secrets dangerous to know - whispered affairs, unpaid bills, brutal husbands or wives. She never understood why they felt the need to tell supposed friends. “This is just between you and me,” they said. But the gossip value was too high, and the friends traded these secrets for others.
She never told anyone - not about dirty sheets, unfaithful husbands, or the stuttering boy who once thought she was special. Instead, she continued to lead her small quiet life, cleaning the pews, counting the hours, and jingling the coins in her pockets so she knew she was still alive.
— opelikakat
Really focused and evocative characterization. I almost identify with her! She doesn't seem horrendously unhappy, but certainly limited-- when maybe she didn't have to be. But some folks are like that. Interesting about the indeterminate age. I think most of us have observed that on occasion. Also, I sense that she picked up fragments of the gossip, just enough to satisfy her undemanding imagination, mere crumbs. ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteThis is beautifully written. She's a very sympathetic character. Love this.
ReplyDeleteAll the little details add up to great characterization. I can see this very sad woman for sure. You’ve also captured a sense of betrayal in terms of people “trading”” secrets.”
ReplyDelete