The House on Olive Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

Everyone else had people, it seemed. Barbara Ann had her husband and children, Beth had her husband and large, extended family, and Elly had her friends and colleagues from the college.
    So on the evening of Gabby’s death, Sable sat in her bedroom suite alone. She indulged in two vodkas, exactly, to take the edge off her internal pain. Fearing alcohol, she only partook with the greatest of care. She would not need the drinks if she could only cry, and loosen the coils of grief inside her. But it wouldn’t come. Never again.
    She would have liked to talk to Eleanor, but couldn’t bear to hear the older woman handle this in her flat, direct manner. It would be even worse if Sable found Eleanor crumbling; Sable might fall into the deep ravine of pain as well, and perhaps this time not claw her way back up. It was better, she thought, to imagine Eleanor coping than to know the truth.
    She sipped her vodkas and thought about her life before and during her relationship with Gabby. Sheeventually slept from 4:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. She was in her kitchen for breakfast—showered, short blond hair perfectly styled, makeup tasteful, decked in tan slacks of light wool and crisply starched white blouse—at 7:00 a.m. She had examined her reflection and knew she did not even look tired. Dorothy had appointed the kitchen table for one. A plate and cereal bowl stood ready and Dorothy was busy at the sink, not looking at her, not saying anything, awaiting further instructions.
    “It’s a damn good thing I didn’t see Gabby’s brunch on my plate again this morning, Dorothy, or I’d have chewed your ass good,” she said, the very first time she’d ever taken that tone with the grumpy housekeeper.
    Dorothy stiffened as though she’d been knocked against the sink.
    “I think fixing me the brunch that was to be prepared for my best friend’s birthday was damned insensitive of you, Dorothy. You might want to think about my feelings once in a while. There’s more to this job than dusting and vacuuming, you know. I am a human being.”
    All this was said without looking at her. Sable spoke while staring at her empty bowl. She was not a retiring person by any means and had reamed a few asses in New York in her day, but there was something about the housekeeper that held her at bay, that she wanted to beat, or win over. There was a reason why she put up with Dorothy, though it displeased her, though she wouldn’t indulge another human with so much patience.
    Finally, softly, “Would you like me to throw away the brunch food?” Dorothy asked.
    “Yes. Or take it for you and Art. Just be sensitive for once. I’m tired of your nasty attitude. And bring me the cornflakes, please.”
    It made Sable feel much better to have been firm.Elated, in fact. She abandoned plans of firing them. She’d coach Dorothy, teach her common courtesy. Wipe that goddamn scowl off her face.
    Dorothy was very, very much like Sable’s mother had been. A soured, bitter victim who thought only of herself and how abused she was by everyone around her. Dorothy even looked a little like Sable’s mother. Sable would recognize the likeness even better if Dorothy were lying on the sofa, blitzed, moaning about how badly men treated her or how unfair her boss had been or what a bad lot in life she’d gotten with a kid to raise alone. Poor me, poor me, poor me, while she did nothing to make her life better or love and nurture her child. Or her grandchild. But with Dorothy, her grim countenance present in her constant industry, Sable could only tell how alike they were in their unhappy eyes, their meanly set mouths, their silent, mistreated air. Sable put up with this in Dorothy because in a way, if she could change Dorothy, cure her, get her to show some love and compassion, it would be like succeeding with her mother.
    She ate her breakfast in silence and when she finished and stood from the table, she looked at Dorothy. Dorothy did not turn from her chore of pulling