Alethea - Judy Stanigar
Alethea trudged up the dusty hill from the bus stop to the little cottage where she worked. She was well acquainted with the house, but not with the people who now occupied it, her new employers. Some of the residents stayed for years, but the last ones had been there only for months. Like many others, they’d been ex-pats.
Although it was not eight yet, and the sun was still low in the sky, it was already hot and humid. She put her large multi-colored, straw-woven satchel down to stop, catch her breath, and remove the scarf worn loosely around her neck, more as a utilitarian object than a fashion statement. Wiping her face with it, she let out the tiniest, almost inaudible, sigh.
Lately, she noticed that she wasn’t as spry as she used to be, the spring had gone from her steps, and she grew tired more easily. But this was the natural way of things, she hastened to remind herself. Age happened to everyone. She took a quick stock of her current situation. Not one to get carried away with self-pity, she was still chafing from yesterday’s visit to the doctor and his dire warning to take her pills as prescribed, daily, without skipping. He’d admonished her, pointing his index finger at her as if she was a child, “If you don’t modify your diet, insulin will be the next step.”
Insulin indeed! And where would she get the money for that? Didn’t his lordship, the doctor, realize how expensive medication was? That was exactly why she skipped a day here and there—to make the pills last longer. As for the high-protein, low-carb, diet he recommended, well! His obliviousness rankled. Why, even now she wondered what her new employers would provide for her lunch. Cooking was part of her housekeeping job—that’s how she thought of herself, a housekeeper not a maid—and if she had any pride in her work, it was about her culinary skills. But the last employer, a horrid couple, had Alethea cook separately for them and her. She cooked them mouth-watering Escovitch fish, curried lamb stews, or chops, while she had to make do with the rice and peas and maybe a boney piece of left-over curried goat thrown in. High protein diet, indeed! She tied the scarf back around her neck and resumed her measured steps. She was early as usual and did not want to be out breath when she met the new people.
Alethea rummaged in her large bag to retrieve the fan her daughter had given her for her birthday. Her heart warmed and she couldn’t help the little smile that formed on her lips when she thought of her daughter, Deshane, “God is gracious.” Deshane would never be a maid, nor even a housekeeper. It was by sheer will power, determination and perseverance, against many hardships, that Alethea had raised her son and daughter. Without any help. Certainly not from her scoundrel husband, who disappeared early in the marriage never to be heard from again, nor for that matter, from her hapless parents. Alas, her son whom she named Antwone, priceless, did not exactly live up to his name and could have done better for himself. Alethea was glad he moved to another island to try his luck. What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t ache, had been her mother’s motto; and while her mother hadn’t bequeathed her much, that piece of wisdom had been worthwhile. But Deshane, now an accountant, was her life’s crowning glory. Alethea’s heart swelled at the thought. Yes, God was full of grace. Deshane, provided that little bit of security that Alethea would be taken care of in old age. Hopefully, though, she could go on working for quite a bit longer. If she didn’t skip on her pills.
Still, the thoughts intruded. Alethea had to think about that day, the day she’d have to stop working. It might come sooner than she’d planned, what with her blood pressure and diabetes. Was it any wonder she had high blood pressure with the kind of work that was her lot? All these years toiling for rich people who treated her, at best, as if she didn’t exist. The last couple she worked for never so much as acknowledge her with a ‘hello.’ Just thinking about it, she felt her blood boil.
Only the merciful God knew what the new employers would be like. A white couple from the United States was all she’d been told. In her experience, the color of the people didn’t matter as much as where they’d come from. In general, she found Americans were not too bad. Perhaps they were riddled with guilt or some notions of equality, for they treated her as if she was a living, breathing person. One even offered her a cup of coffee once. While others, especially the newly rich, made ridiculous demands. “Alethea, could you do this for me; Alethea could you get me that?” As if they couldn’t get up and help themselves to anything beyond their immediate grasp. Little annoyances, but they rankled. Some left their underwear on the floor, which she’d pick up, wash, fold, and iron. How could dignified people act that way?
Having arrived at the cottage, she again stopped and wiped beads of perspiration from her face. This time she tied the scarf in a stylish knot. She smoothed her hands over her braided hair and then over her dress. In her spare time Alethea liked to sew, and this dress was one of her best. She kept her work uniform in her satchel to put on at work, not a moment sooner. Always dress above your station, was her mantra. And hold your head up high.
Alethea stiffened her shoulders, rang the doorbell, and waited for the woman of the house to open the door.
Judy Stanigar is a writer living in San Diego. She has been published by The Writing Disorder and Concho River Review magazines. Her first novel, Marika’s Best Laid Plan, was published in 2021 by All Things That Matter Press. In her free time, Judy is a practicing psychotherapist and dabbles in watercolor painting.
