Amá asks me to clean houses with her today. Scratch that. She forces me to clean houses with her today. The lady she usually works with pulled a muscle in her back and can’t get out of bed. Not only that, Amá says I should earn my quinceañera, even though I would rather eat a bowl of amoebas than go through with it. Now that I’m almost a woman, it’s time I learn to be responsible, Amá says. Not exactly the way I want to spend a Saturday, but I have no choice. What am I going to say? “Go clean those mansions by your damn self. I feel like writing and taking a nap!” That would not be acceptable, especially since Olga, my angelic sister, was our mother’s reliable helper.
All the houses we have to clean are in Lincoln Park, one of the richest neighborhoods in Chicago. The first one belongs to a man who isn’t home. It’s already spotless, so it only takes about an hour. Easy breezy. People really do spend money on the dumbest things.
The second house is a few blocks away, and the owner is an uptight lawyer who peers over our shoulders the whole time, talking to us in her horrible high school Spanish, even though I can guarantee my English is better than hers. I hate her and her beige furniture from the start, but I just play along and pretend me no espeak English. Amá says it’s best not to talk to them if it can be avoided. It takes us three hours to finish because we have to do laundry, too. I don’t know why she can’t do it herself. I mean, she was there the whole entire time. Some people are so lazy.
The last place is a two-story brownstone near the DePaul campus. The owner tells us he’s a professor of anthropology, as if
we care. A real prig, too. He introduces himself as Dr. Scheinberg and uses the word propitious. I know what that means, of course— I read, duh—but why would you use words like that with a Mexican cleaning lady? As Mr. Ingman says, “Know your audience.”
Dr. Scheinberg tells us he’ll be back in three and a half hours. When he says farewell instead of goodbye, I want to punch him right in the throat, but I just smile and wave back.
The house looks like a museum. It’s filled with multicolored rugs, brown-and-black African masks, and statues of men and women in weird sexual positions. Everything looks like it costs thousands of dollars and belongs in a glass case. At first glance, it appears to be clean, but when you look closer, there are crumbs and filth everywhere—dust bunnies the size of rabbits.
“Ave María purísima,” Amá mutters, and makes the sign of the cross. She probably thinks he’s a Satanist. She’s always assuming people are Satanists.
Amá says we should begin with the most disgusting parts of the house—the bathrooms, better to get them over with. The master bathroom is covered with piles of wet clothes and towels. The sink is smeared with gobs of toothpaste and little black hairs. Gross. I kick everything to the side and approach the toilet. It only makes sense to start with the worst of the worst. I put on the gloves Amá gave me, take the brush from its stand, and hold my breath.
“Go on,” Amá says.
This is what I was dreading the most. I can deal with filth, but toilets…other people’s toilets always upset me. I once got a urinary tract infection after holding in my pee for hours because I couldn’t find a suitable bathroom. The other two we scrubbed today were easy because they were already relatively clean, but I doubt that’s going to be the case here.
I lift the lid, and it’s worse than I expect. Much worse: a giant black turd. Is this real? Is this some kind of joke? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? I jump back and begin to gag. My eyes water. What the hell does this man eat? Coal?
“Don’t be so delicate! Flush it and clean it,” Amá says, rolling her eyes, as if she sees this kind of biological warfare on a daily
basis. Well, she might, actually.
I breathe through my mouth and try to clean it as quickly as possible. When we’re finished with the master bathroom, we move on to the guest bathroom, which seems like a walk in a beautiful garden in comparison. Thank God. Why does one man need more than one toilet? I have no idea.
I’m afraid the bedroom is going to be full of sex stuff, but the grossest thing we find is crumpled tissue on the floor next to the bed and nail clippings on his dresser. There are clothes and shoes strewn everywhere, too. I thought I was messy, but this man is a complete barbarian.
Next is the kitchen. The fumes burn the inside of my nose as I scour the stove. I wonder how many chemicals Amá is exposed to every day. I wish we had music because the silence is making me restless. All I hear is squeaking, spraying, and wiping. How does Amá do this day in and day out?
“So…did Olga like to clean with you?” I don’t know what else to say, but I can’t stand that it’s so quiet.
“Like it? Who likes cleaning? No one likes it. It’s just what you do.”
“Okay, I’m sorry I asked.”
Amá looks a little ashamed for being so harsh. “It’s okay, mija.” It seems like she’s really trying to think of something to say. “How is school?”
“It’s okay,” I lie. The truth is that school is excruciating. I love reading and learning, but I can’t stand everything else. I don’t have many friends and feel lonely all the time. Ever since Olga died, it’s gotten even worse. It’s like I don’t know how to talk to people. That’s why I’m always trying to lose myself in books. “I love my English class. Mr. Ingman says I’m a good writer.”
“Mm-hmm, that’s good,” Amá says, but she’s not paying attention. She doesn’t say much whenever I tell her anything about school. She doesn’t know a lot about it because she had to drop out when she was in eighth grade to help with the family business. Apá quit when he was in seventh grade in order to work in the fields. It’s strange not being able to talk to your parents about something so important.
As I look at a painting of a woman with a large butt, hanging in the dining room, I remember Olga’s friend Jazmyn, who also has a large butt.
“Amá, do you remember Olga’s friend Jazmyn?”
“¿Esa huerca? How can I forget? She was always at our house, never wanted to go home. She drove me crazy. Why? What about her?”
“I was just remembering her, that’s all. Do you remember her last name?”
“Why? Did you see her or something?”
I get a little panicky, as if somehow she can see inside my brain and know that I went to that party.
“No, of course not. Didn’t she move to Texas? Where would I see her?” I probably sound too defensive. I let the silence hang for a while. With a repulsed look on her face, Amá dusts all of the statues.
“Did Olga have a boyfriend?” I finally say.
“The only boyfriend she had was Pedro, such a nice young man.” If by nice, she means ugly and dull, then sure.
“So, she never had a boyfriend after that?”
“Of course not. What kind of question is that? Did you ever see her running around with boys?” Amá looks annoyed, but I can’t stop asking questions.
“Okay, okay, sorry. It’s just…how was it that she was twenty-two and didn’t have a boyfriend for so many years? That seems weird.” “What’s so strange about a young lady who doesn’t sleep
around, who enjoys spending time at home with her family? Girls
here have no morals. You’re the weird one, you know that?” Amá’s face is starting to get splotchy, and her big eyes look inflamed, so I shut up and keep cleaning.
—
Dr. Scheinberg arrives right as we’re finishing. When he hands us the money, he says, “Gracias,” and bows with his hands pressed together, and oh my God, he’s not even joking. I don’t like the way
he stares at Amá when he says goodbye. There’s something about him that makes me feel as if I’m smeared in an awful, warm goo. No wonder he’s not married.
It’s dark and the ground is covered with snow. Everything looks beautiful and still, as if it were a photograph and not real life. Usually, winter makes me glum, but every once and a while, moments like this are peaceful and pleasant—the icicles, the glittering snow, the silence.
By the time we get on the bus, my back aches, my hands are cracked, and my eyes burn from all the cleaning products. I smell like bleach and sweat. I’ve never been this tired in my whole life. Who knew rich people could be so disgusting? Now I understand why everyone calls work la chinga and why Amá is always in a bad mood. I wonder what else she sees in people’s houses, and if other men look at her the way Dr. Scheinberg does.
