Chapter 3 - Hands That Would Not Let Go
The scissors had not moved. That was the only thing I could hold on to.
Daniel stood close enough that I could see the black handles shaking in his hand. The blade edge rested against the curtain just below my fingers. Below me, the housekeeper's knuckles were white where she gripped the fabric, her knees pressed hard into the wood floor. She did not look at me. She looked only at him.
"What did you say?" he had asked her. The question was still hanging in the daylight between us.
She breathed once, loud through her nose, and did not let go to wipe her face. "I said your father changed the will," she said. "I heard him. I was in the room when he said it."
Behind Daniel, his mother made a sharp sound. "She is lying," she said. She wore the dark green blouse and the pearl necklace my father-in-law had given her years ago on their anniversary. The pearls moved when she talked. "Daniel, do not listen to help like that."
But Daniel did not move the scissors. "What paper?" he said. His voice was low. "If there is a paper, I want to see it before I decide anything."
That was where we were. His mother wanted him to finish it. He wanted proof first. I wanted to stay upright on that narrow sill with my back against the window frame and my baby heavy inside the light purple dress that was sticking to my legs with sweat.
The housekeeper shifted her weight but kept both hands on the lower curtain. Her gray hair had come loose from her bun in thin strands. Her dark blue uniform with the white collar was wrinkled at the sleeves where she had been holding on.
"I was bringing his tea," she said, talking fast now, her eyes fixed on Daniel. "Late. After dinner. He called Mr. Lawson on the speaker. He said the words out loud. That the baby inherits. That no one can cut the baby out."
Mr. Lawson. I knew that name. Our family lawyer from downtown, the one with the slow voice who always offered water before he talked business.
"Stop talking," the older woman said. She stepped forward and put her hand on the housekeeper's shoulder. "Get up. You are making this worse."
The housekeeper did not get up.
I remembered then, because I could not help it, the afternoon my father-in-law had sat with me in this same room. Not by the window. By the fireplace, where the cream walls caught the light and the framed art looked soft. I had been about six months along. My hands were swollen. He had looked at my belly and then at my face, and he had said, "No one in this house will leave that child with nothing. I will make sure of it."
He had said it plainly, like a promise a man makes when he means it to hold. I had believed him because his hands were steady when he said it and because Daniel had smiled at me from the doorway when he heard it.
Now his widow was standing over the woman who had heard him say it again, trying to pull her away.
"Let go of that curtain," the older woman said. She hooked her fingers under the housekeeper's arm and pulled up. Her short gray hair did not move. Her face was set hard. "I am telling you to let go."
The fabric jerked between us. I felt the pull travel straight up to my hands and my shoulders swayed toward the glass. I gripped harder, my nails pressing through the thick off-white weave. The sheer curtain behind me brushed my back.
"Please," I whispered. I had said Daniel, help me before. I had said Daniel, please don't, stop before. I did not have anything new. "Please hold still."
Daniel lifted his free hand. "Mom. Stop."
"She is stalling," his mother said, still tugging. "She wants you to doubt. That child inherits nothing. Your father and I agreed on that long before."
"You did not agree," the housekeeper said through clenched teeth. She leaned her whole weight down into her knees to stay where she was. Her cuffs pulled back and I could see the thin skin on her wrists strain as she held on. "He changed it after. He told Mr. Lawson to write it down."
The older woman pulled harder. For a second her shoe slipped on the polished floor and she caught herself against Daniel's side. She was not a small woman but the housekeeper was planted, both hands locked, her body low like she had decided the floor was hers.
"Let go," the older woman hissed. She grabbed at one of the housekeeper's hands now, trying to peel the fingers back from the curtain.
"No," the housekeeper said. She looked up at Daniel, not at the woman pulling her. "I am not letting go. If I let go, she falls."
The words cut clearer than the scissors had. Daniel stared down at her hands, at my hands above, at the tight line of fabric between us holding my weight. His brown belt creaked when he shifted. He still held the scissors to the curtain, but his arm had dropped a fraction, like it was getting too heavy to keep up.
His mother released the housekeeper's arm and stepped back, breathing hard. Her pearl necklace had twisted. She fixed it with one quick, angry motion.
May you like
The housekeeper stayed kneeling. She re-gripped the lower curtain, first one hand, then the other, pulling the slack tight again. She kept hold.
I stayed on the sill. The daylight did not change. None of us had left that window.
