Part 9

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 8)

Walking through the gardens I see Mrs. Wesley stooped over with gloves and a trowel. She's like a Van Gogh painting of a peasant woman in a field only her toil is out of boredom, not necessity. I'm struck at how her brittle face softens when she's tending to her flowers. When she sees me, however, she raises the trowel like my fifth grade teacher used to raise a menacing yardstick. Tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. sharp, she says.

I resist saluting, and in my room I escape into my prized photo book, The Family of Man. Its powerful images push back my four walls and help me forget that I'm a houseman instead of a photographer. Already I'm tempted to quit and give Mrs. Wesley a historical update informing her that Lincoln abolished slavery in 1863. But not wanting to turn my car into a motel again I bite my tongue and put up with her broken promises and never-ending coldness. Part of me feels sorry for her. Even on weekends the judge is seldom home and she secludes herself in the big house drinking and smoking with nothing to do other than direct my work. Whenever I'm about to finish up for the day she says, Just one more chore, and she says it with the charming insincerity of a photographer promising, Just one more shot. The tasks never end until I put my foot down and remind her that I need the luxury of lunch. At first I gave in to her fickle wants but now I know that nothing will satisfy her, like someone who is never satisfied with their plastic surgery because what really needs fixing is inside.

(to be continued every Tuesday)