CLEANING LADIES
Part One of Four
by Marie Delgado Travis
My cleaning lady in San Antonio, Texas was named Mary. Mary was a pleasant African-American woman, peppy and agile for her age, which she claimed was in her 70´s. Aware that she might actually descend from slaves, I considered it a fair and just retribution to knock myself out cleaning before her weekly visit, so that she could make an easy buck. ¨Oh, Miz T., I just LOVE workin´ for y´all. Y´all are SO neat! ¨ Of course, she never caught on that this was on account of her ancestors having to work overtime.
"Good morning, Mary, how are you? Please sit down, put your feet up. There, is that comfy enough for you? How ´bout some coffee? When was the last time I gave you a raise?" I fawned all over her. I’d even ordered a sandwich for her to take home. I’m sorry my ancestors were mean to your ancestors. Wait a minute ... some of my ancestors WERE your ancestors. But I guess I just enjoy feeling guilty and do it well.
One day Mary was acting strangely. She always wore a hat and carried an umbrella to protect against the Texas sun, which was ´specially crispy at about noon, when she ordinarily left my home. Noting that she left without her usual props, I waved her back, "Mary, you left your hat and umbrella." She turned and said, ¨Oh, that’s all right, Miz T. I didn’t bring them today."
This was disturbing, not only because, as I mentioned, she ALWAYS carried those items with her, but I was holding them, as we spoke, and she didn't seem to recognize them. I attributed her disorientation to the eccentricities of old age and clasped the articles in her hand, "Take them anyway, please, Mary."
Early the next morning, Mary passed out in the street on the way to clean another home. She later referred to the incident as a heat stroke, but her doctor assured me it was a ¨stroke stroke,¨ a massive one, and she was never able to return to work -- not even to my house, where she hardly had to lift a finger. It just hadn’t clicked with me that Mary’s confusion could possibly signal a serious illness. I have since tried to be more discerning, figuring it might save a life someday. I’d rather be called alarmist than apathetic. After all, a good cleaning woman is hard to find. Take my word for it. And I even do windows.
