“Since you’ve brought up social abilities,” Gran says, “I keep meaning to mention that you don’t need to say ‘Yes, madam’ quite so much in Mrs. Grimthorpe’s presence, or in anyone’s presence for that matter. It’s fine to show respect, but when you overdo it, people might think you’re obsequious.”
“O-B-S-E-Q-U-I-O-U-S. Meaning: overly obedient.”
“Yes, and servile. Someone lacking self-respect. And while you’re at it, when you want to know the meaning of words, you don’t have to spell them out. I love your spelling bees, but not everyone does. Maybe that’s something you can also do more sparingly?”
Gran approaches me then, and folds me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. “And Molly, just remember: no matter what, I’ll always be proud of you. You have just as much right as anyone to carry your head high.”
“Chin up, Buttercup,” I say as I look up at Gran.
“That’s my girl,” she replies. “Molly, I’m going to run downstairs to collect the laundry. I’ll fold it up and be back before you can say Jiminy Cricket.”
She has three loads to fold today, and even if she had only one, for the time it would take her to fold everything, I could probably say Jiminy Cricket a thousand times. But I know Gran is using an expression. She doesn’t intend it literally—meaning: precisely, strictly, exactly.
She opens the front door to leave, but then turns back. “If Mr. Rosso drops by, please give him the envelope I left on the kitchen table. And ask for the receipt, mind you. It’s that time of the month again,” she says with a weary look.
I know exactly what she means by “that time of the month.” It means the first day of the month, which is when our rent is due. Mr. Rosso, with his big, bulbous nose and his matching belly, will be here any minute, pounding on the door, demanding what’s his.
“Why is he called a landlord?” I ask my gran. “He does not behave like a lord.”
“Doesn’t he?” Gran replies. “He demands money for shoddy accommodations, expects deference for a lack of services, and covets property as if the entire world belongs to him. But give him the rent anyhow. After all, we want the lights to stay on. So be polite.”
“I always am.”
“Yes, you are,” Gran says. She smiles and walks out the door, locking it behind her. I can hear her humming down the hallway all the way to the stairs.
Once she’s gone, I crumple my report card into a satisfying ball and throw it in the kitchen garbage can.
It isn’t long before I hear a knock on our door. “Coming!” I say as I grab a kitchen chair and make my way to the entrance. Gran always makes me look through the fish-eye peephole before I open sesame, so I position the chair, climb up, and peer out.
It’s not Mr. Rosso. It’s a young lady I don’t recognize with jet-black hair and skittish eyes.
“Good day!” I call through the door. “Might I ask—who are you?”
“I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours,” the young lady says from the other side of the door.
I pause to think about this, never taking my eye from the peephole.
“Gran says I’m not to tell my name to strangers. I’m also not supposed to open the door to them.”
The woman shifts her weight from foot to foot as though she urgently needs the washroom. “I’m not a stranger,” she says. “Your gran knows me well. And I know you. Her name is Flora, and your name is Molly. I’ve been here before, you know. You just don’t remember because you were knee-high to a grasshopper, as your gran used to say.”
This sounds reassuring, but I’ve read Ali Baba, so I know better than to open doors before sesame is said. “Prove that you’ve been here before,” I demand.
She scratches her head. “Um, okay…Your grandmother’s favorite teacup is the one with the cottage scene on it. She keeps it on the shelf by the stove in the kitchen.”
She is absolutely, 100 percent right. And this is a detail only someone who has been in our apartment could know.
Still, I decide to exact another proof of truth. “How do you know my gran?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says as she tries to look through the peephole. “Um, we used to work together?”
“Where?”
“At…um…that mansion. The Grimthorpe mansion.”
“What did you do there?”
“What do you think? I was…a maid.”
That settles it. I jump off the chair, turn the lock, and open sesame.
The young woman stands in front of me, staring down at me with wide eyes. Her face looks sunken and wan. She could use a bit more sunshine, and she’s shaking as if she’s cold, though it’s not a cold day at all. I notice red marks up her arms. I know how she got them. We had bedbugs once, too. My legs were raw like that, a constellation of itchy connect-the-dots.
The young woman stares at me wordlessly.
“You’re a friend of Gran’s, you said?”
“Yeah.” She nods vigorously.
She does not look like any friend of Gran’s I’ve seen before. Gran’s friends tend to have gray hair and glasses, just like Gran. They arrive with wool picked up from garage sales or freshly baked cookies they made themselves. But when I open the closet and take out the shoe cloth to clean the young lady’s footwear, she takes it from my hand and knows just what to do. It’s more proof that she’s telling the truth—she most certainly has been here before.
She wipes the bottoms of her dirty, old sneakers and takes them off, placing them neatly on the mat inside. Her eyes take in the apartment.
“Wow. Time warp. Hasn’t changed a bit.” She notices the chair at the entrance. Resting proudly on it is Gran’s recently completely embroidered pillow.
“She still does crafts,” she says, picking up the pillow and reading out loud. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Whoa,” she says. “Sounds like my old sponsor.”
“Sponsor,” I say. “Meaning: to promote, to support.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
I realize then that I’m being impolite. It’s not often that I’m in charge of guests. In fact, it’s never happened before. “Would you like to come in?” I ask, thinking how proud Gran would be of my manners.
“Where is she?” the young lady asks. “Where’s your gran?”
“Folding laundry downstairs,” I explain. “She’s got three loads today. We saved up lots of quarters in the Special Jar. Come,” I say as I lead my guest into the kitchen. She stands in front of the table, extends a hand to touch it, gently, as if she were petting a friendly cat rather than a worn piece of furniture.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” I ask.
“No,” she replies. “That’s okay.”
“Please have a seat.” I gesture to Gran’s usual spot at the table.
“Thanks,” she says as she pulls out the chair and cautiously sits. “You’re really…polite. You’re totally different from what I imagined. Come here, let me get a good look at you.”
I stand in front of her and she grabs my hands in hers. She leans forward, her face close to mine. And just like that, she begins to sob.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I recently learned I’m a social failure and that I’m not at the level of my peers, so whatever I did to upset you, I assure you, I didn’t do it on purpose.”
She lets go of my hands and wipes at her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.
“Maybe you don’t like me,” I say. “Not many people do.”
“No, I do like you. You have no idea. It’s just…it’s like looking in a mirror.”
And then it comes to me. I know just what to do. I take a tissue from the box on the kitchen table. “Tissue for your issue?” I say.