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person who’d entered my house in four years.
    On Tuesday evenings at five-thirty, I clean a dentist’s office. When I first moved to Shakespeare and was living off my savings (what was left after I’d finished paying what the insurance didn’t cover on my medical bills), while I built up my clientele, Dr. Sizemore had stayed until I got there, watched me clean, and locked the door behind me when I left. Now I have a key. I bring my own cleaning supplies to Dr. Sizemore’s; he prefers it that way, so I charge him a little more. It is a matter of indifference to me whether I use my own supplies or the client’s; I have my favorites, but they have theirs, too. I want to be Lily Bard who cleans; I don’t want to be Busy Hands or Maids to Go or anything business-sounding.
    Strictly privately, I call myself Shakespeare’s Sanitary Service.
    I’d thought of housecleaning as the ultimate in detachment when I’d decided how I would try to support myself, but cleaning has turned out to be an intimate occupation. Not only have I found out physical details about the people who employ me (for example, Dr. Sizemore is losing his hair and has problems with constipation) but I’ve learned more about their lives, involuntarily, than I feel comfortable with.
    Sometimes I amuse myself by writing a fictional column for the biweekly Shakespeare Journal while I work. “Dr. John Sizemore recently received a bill from a skin magazine—and I don’t mean the kind for dermatologists—so he’s hiding the copies somewhere…. His receptionist, Mary Helen Hargreaves [when the locals said it, it sounded like Mare Heln] does her nails at work and reads English mystery novels on her lunch hour…. His nurse, Linda Gentry, finished a package of birth control pills today, so next cleaning night, there’ll be Tampax in the bathroom.”
    But who would be interested in a column like that? The things I’ve learned are not things of real interest to anyone, though I was among the first to know that Jerri Sizemore wanted a divorce (the summons from the lawyer had been open on John Sizemore’s desk), and I learned last week that Bobo Winthrop was practicing safe sex with someone while his parents were at the country club dance.
    There are lots of things I know, and I’ve never told anyone or even thought of it. But this thing I know, about the death of Pardon Albee…this, I thought, I might have to tell.
    It would lead to exposure, I felt in my bones.
    My life might not be much, but it’s all I have and it’s livable. I’ve tried other lives; this one suits me best.
    I was through at Dr. Sizemore’s at seven-thirty, and I locked the door carefully, then went home to eat a chicken breast, a roll, and some broccoli sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. After I’d cleaned up the kitchen, I fidgeted around the house, tried a library book, slammed it shut, and at last resorted to turning on the television.
    I’d forgotten to check the time. I’d turned the TV on during the news. The pictures were among the worst: women holding screaming children, bombs exploding, bodies in the street in the limp grip of death. I saw the face of one desperate woman whose family was buried in rubble, and before my finger could punch the channel changer, tears were running down my face.
    I haven’t been able to watch the news in years.

Chapter 4

    WEDNESDAY MORNINGS ARE FLEXIBLE. IT’S THE TIME I set aside for emergencies (special cleanings for ladies who are going to host the bridge club or give a baby shower) or rare cleanings, like helping a woman turn out her attic. This Wednesday, I had long been scheduled to help Alvah York with her spring cleaning. Alvah observes this rite even though she and her husband, T. L., live in one of Pardon Albee’s apartments now that T. L. has retired from the post office.
    Two years before, I’d helped Alvah spring-clean a three-bedroom house, and Alvah had started work before I arrived and kept on going at noon when I left. But