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a smile. But sooner or later, he glances up at his wife’s portrait, and another bank of gray clouds moves in. He goes back where the world can’t reach him, and I clear the tea things.
    And he never—no, never—mentions his son.

Nobody

    A s I pull open the door, the bell jingles and Mr. Wentworth glances up, gives me a nod.
    “Afternoon, Addy,” he says. “What can I get you today?” I look down at my list. “Potatoes and carrots. Beef, enough for a stew. And a pound of sugar. And butter.” I’ll get the stew and pound cake going for Mr. Greenwood’s dinner before I start the ironing this afternoon. “And Mr. Greenwood asked special for some of those chocolate biscuits he likes.”
    “I know the ones,” says Mr. Wentworth. “Won’t be a moment.” He slips through a door into the back, and I hear his feet tromping downstairs. I reach over to the bread and pick up a loaf for a sniff: is it as good as mine? I’m about to put it back when the doorbell jingles behind me and I hear two pairs of shoes prancing in.
    “Look. Somebody’s here.” It’s Mary’s voice, as snide as ever.
    I freeze in place. I will not turn to look at them. I feel my face burning above my starched collar. I’m acutely aware of my apron, the white maid’s cap perched on top of my head. The one Mum makes me wear. The one I forgot to take off to come marketing.
    “That’s not a somebody,” says Caroline. “It’s a nobody . Nobody at all!”
    They both laugh like it’s the funniest thing they ever heard. I still don’t turn around. Where is Mr. Wentworth? How many storage rooms can he have down in that cellar?
    “You were wonderful at rehearsal yesterday.” Mary says it to Caroline, but I know each word is directed at me. “Lucky thing it’s you playing the queen. Some people aren’t meant for more than scullery work.”
    “Maybe she could clean up for us after the performance,” says Caroline, each word dripping scorn. Then, louder, “Where’s your bucket, Addy?”
    My hands clench the loaf so hard, they squish right through.
    “Addy,” says Caroline. “Where’s your—”
    The back door swings open again.
    “Oh, there you are, Mr. Wentworth,” says Caroline, suddenly bright and cheery.
    “Out of school early, aren’t you girls?” he says. “It’s a half day,” says Caroline. “We wondered if you’d post this flyer in your window. It’s about our school play. We want everyone to come.” I feel her eyes on my back. “And I’ll take a pack of those sweets. No, the lemon ones.”
    Coins clink down on the counter, and the door jingles open and shut.
    There’s a long silence.
    “Addy?” says Mr. Wentworth. “Addy?”

The Locked Door

    I bang the lid on the stewpot, toss the big spoon into the sink with a clatter. Finish the washing up, the water boiling, so I can pretend it’s the heat and not shame making my skin burn. Oh! I’ll never live it down! Putting that mangled loaf on the counter to pay for, and Mr. Wentworth’s eyes lifting from the tortured bread to my face, and that look of pity …
    I grab the broom and start in hard enough to sweep the tiles away. Caroline, the queen? I heard her reading for that part; she’ll destroy the play. I throw the broom back in the closet. The stew is bubbling, so I turn to give it a stir, a taste, add a pinch of salt, then the lid back on and the heat as low as it will go. I plug in the iron and pull over the big basket of linens, but they just sit there as Caroline’s words sneak back into my thoughts.
    It’s a nobody. Nobody at all.
    I stare out the window, across the fence to the trees in the distance. If I could, I’d shed the girl I am like a snake slides out of a ragged, outgrown skin. I’d change my hair, my clothes, my name. And if anyone asked me about Addy Morrow, I’d deny she ever existed. One day …
    Oh, Lord, the iron! I grab it, but no harm done; it’s just getting hot enough now. I take a napkin from the basket, sprinkle it with