Probation by Tom Mendicino Read Free Book Online Page B

determined I would repeat his up-by-the-boot-straps-through-hard-work-and-determination-Horatio-Alger story, negotiated the price. Ten dollars for my sweat and the wear and tear on his lawnmower. Five bucks extra if they wanted to set me loose on the boxwood hedges with a pair of clippers.
    I acquiesced without argument, not knowing how to explain the queasy feeling in my stomach when I knew they were watching me. I refused to take off my shirt, not even when the temperature spiked into the low hundreds. Of course, Mr. Sax and Mr. Wright were perfect gentlemen, never advancing to remarks, let alone casual touching. Mr. Sax would bring me glasses of ice water or lemonade and, when the labors of Hercules were finished for another week, hand me my remuneration in a thick, cream-colored envelope. Lovely, just lovely, he’d say. I asked Gina why he couldn’t just say good job or nice work. Because, stupid, she said, he’s talking about you, not the grass.
    Later that summer, Mr. Sax approached my father again. He and Mr. Wright were taking a short holiday (again, my father pursed his lips and flitted his hands, mimicking the conversation) and the guest house on Cape Cod refused to accommodate pets. Mr. Sax assured me Miss Hellman would be no problem at all. (“The fucking cat’s a male!” the old man sputtered, disgusted.) He was as gentle as a lamb, the sweetest puss on earth. Just change the litter and make sure he had enough food and water. On the third day of cat-sitting duty, I persuaded my mother to take the Grand Tour. She oohed and aahed over each camera-ready tableau. A green velvet sofa with huge carved claw feet dominated the front room. Chairs with needlepoint seats and fierce straight backs were clustered for intimate conversation. Porcelain shepherdesses herded tiny crystal objects scattered atop the occasional tables. Spit-polished brass andirons waited for colder weather to return. Mr. Sax spent countless hours surveying his Master’s domain, repositioning a hair here, an eyelash there, the perfect arrangement never quite achieved.
    My mother and I wandered from room to room. But when we reached the wide staircase that led to the second floor, she hesitated, declining my suggestion we explore the rooms above. A troubled look crossed her face and she asked if I had been up there. No, I answered truthfully. She said she shouldn’t have come here uninvited and for either of us to invade Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax’s private rooms would betray their trust. She allowed herself one last indulgence, picking up a china plate to appreciate the delicate blue willow pattern. Imagine the holidays they once had in this house, she said. I tried to picture Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax as they sat down to dinner. Did they huddle together in one corner of the long table or sit at opposite ends?
    And where exactly did Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax sleep? I would have to wait until Miss Hellman’s next feeding to answer that question.
    The cat sat at the bottom of the staircase, accusing me with his eyes as I climbed the steps. The windows were shuttered, letting in only thin strips of daylight. The first room was a bedroom, meant for guests, its closets and chests full of towels and linens. The second room was a study with walls of books and a prissy writing table with a full complement of expensive writing implements. The last room was for sewing, with an ancient Singer and baskets overflowing with spools of thread. Miss Hellman streaked across my feet, having decided it wasn’t wise to let me wander these rooms alone.
    He followed me up to the third floor. The door at the end of the hall was open; a huge canopy bed, mattress riding high above the floor, overwhelmed their bedroom. Books were neatly stacked on the nightstands on each side of the bed. A pair of reading glasses sat on one table. Mr. Sax’s side of the bed. A cigarette case and silver lighter rested on the other. Mr. Wright’s side.
    The cat leaped onto the dressing table