The Gallery Read Online Free PDF Page B

feigned either ignorance or indifference with a shrug and turned his back to me, retrieving a small book from his vest pocket to read while the water boiled.
    Steam rose in me as it built in the kettle. To know what happened—to have been an eyewitness to thewhole crazy scene—and to keep it to yourself! What was the point of knowing something if no one knew what you knew?
    The silence expanded. Chef banged pans. I tried to catch Alphonse’s attention again, clinking china and clearing my throat. Alphonse leaned back against the workstation, but said nothing. A hint of steam appeared. Alphonse flipped a page. When I peeked at the book, he shifted so his back was more squarely to me. I flung a pot into the scrub sink and smiled when he reached for a handkerchief to dab the dirty water off his uniform.
    Finally the watched pot had boiled and the tea was made, a gingersnap added as a kind of apology, too little too late. I thrust the tray at Alphonse, who barely looked up from his book.
    â€œNo, it’s for you. They ask you to bring it.”
    â€œMe? Why? When?”
    â€œBe quick, they say. As for why-—” He shrugged again slowly, but shot a look at the tea tray.
    â€”
    There is a step that a maid perfects in time, a step that is swift in speed, yet seems unhurried. It’s a dance between you and marble staircases and unsecured rugs where you glide effortlessly, your tray virtually hovering.
    But I had not perfected this and had to stop outside Mrs. Sewell’s rooms to wipe off the saucer with my apron. It was only when I looked up that I noticed something strange on the landing: a cot, a washstand, a small table with a deck of cards in mid-solitaire.
    The door opened up, and a wide, ruddy face popped out, like a tough working the door of a speakeasy. “What, girl?”
    â€œThey told me to come up!” I protested guiltily, but for what I didn’t know.
    â€œAgh, the tea. Well, bring it in then. Don’t stand outside ogling.”
    The man flung the door open and stood aside.
    My breath caught in my throat.
    What lay before me was no lady’s room. It was nothing short of a museum—or what I imagined a museum would look like. In just a small suite of rooms were crammed dozens of paintings, stacked three or four deep, leaning against walls or tables or wardrobes. Others were hung haphazardly, some big, some small, some dangling so they half jutted across a window, as if they were in a constant state of rotation, changed daily, hourly even, with every shifting mood.
    No wonder she was nuts, I thought. The wallspulsated with life—no, with something larger than life. Gods and goddesses fought and frolicked. Dukes and duchesses followed me with their eyes. Winds swept through landscapes, and bowls of glistening fruit dangled out of reach. And in some pictures, lines shot this way and that, meeting nothing but squiggles and blocks of color. They added to the sense of madness, to the sense that every form of life had been sucked out of the house and stuffed somewhere incapable of containing its grandness. Like Mrs. Riordan’s son, George, who wanders Willoughby Street claiming to be King Tut, Queen Victoria, or Heavyweight Champion boxer Jack Dempsey, depending on the day.
    â€œMartha!” My mother’s sharp call summoned me back to Mrs. Sewell’s bedroom where a small crowd surrounded a canopied and curtained bed. I set the tea down on a marble-topped table, and when my mother gestured to stay, tried to will myself into the wallpaper.
    â€œThe dumbwaiter will have to be seen to,” came Mr. Sewell’s voice; he then raised it for another listener, as if speaking to a child. “You may always exit via the door, darling. You know we’re longing for you to join us downstairs. But this dumbwaiter business, it’s not safe.”
    â€œWhat has she been reading?” The scolding voice came from a distinguished older man standing at the