A Dusting Hand

Rose E. Sinclair

Dawson County

27-Jun-1996

Memoires, we all have them, some more, some fewer. But why? Why do we have them, and what makes them so special? How can a color paint a picture, or perhaps a smell trigger a story? I guess for the Robinsons, family photos are their way of showing their “happy life” they live.

I dust the frames every Wednesday at 3 pm, all thirty-seven of them.

"Darling, don't forget the one in the dining room, I believe you forgot to dust it last week." Mrs. Robinson said in a pale tone. I whipped my head back, startled, and saw Mrs. Robinson sitting in a sunflower dress and white sunglasses, sipping a glass with a book in her hand. "Oh... um, yes, yes of course, I'll do it right away". She grinned, her eyes never leaving the book as I shuffled through the hallway.

I did dust it last week. She would notice if she weren't so self-absorbed. Just like she would notice her son is at the diner with his friends after purposefully skipping the bus. Or if something were to go missing. She doesn't care, just like she doesn't care if I have already dusted the picture frame in the dining room.

Just like the other 17 families' households I clean each week. All absorbed into different addictions, different distractions, different conflicts, so to speak. All so blind to what they have, all the memories I'll never have, the endless choices of food, the clothes in the closets that could clothe the poor.

All the things they take for granted.

I went into the dining room and gazed around. Folded napkins lay on top of the table with a dinner fork and a soup spoon placed measurably perfect on top. The salad plate lay on top of the dinner plate, as the dinner plate lay on the charger plate. A plate for a plate, while all I have is a bowl and a spoon.

Dinner wouldn't be held until 6:30 pm, that's how it always been, no sooner, no later. John, Mr. Robinson, would be home around 4:30, 4:45 if we don't take I-45 before rush hour. Malisa is spending the night at Tiffany's after school, so she won't be at dinner. She's only allowed sleepovers on Fridays due to no school on Saturdays. Frank, well, Frank will be a little late to dinner, he's busy playing skee-ball.

I dust the top and edges of the frame and see a sparkle of light in the corner of my eye. A small teacup sat on a marble coaster that lay on the glass coffee table in the next room. I turned to get a better look. It was baby blue, almost the color of the sky. There were white birds that looked to have been painted on. Some were sitting on branches, and some had wings spread and detailed painted feathers catching the breeze.

"Yes," I said to myself, this was it. I wanted this one. I walked very casually into the small room. Books were on different-shaped shelves of faded color, some a dark green with cracks, some red with brown bindings, or some with no writing on the spine. Little trinkets were scattered on the shelves as well, trophies, ribbons, heck, even a broken piggy bank. All have value, some more than others. How weird, a little object could be loved by one yet hated by another. A single solid object could hold meaning that no one understands but you. A worn-out ball resembles the hours of practice, dedication, and love in baseball. Or a simple pen, when passed down through generations, holds the writings of lost knowledge, dreams, promises, and words of meaning that are heartfelt, and every stroke serves a purpose.

There was a desk sitting by a window with an old leather chair, with the rays of the sunlight beaming heavenly. Crumpled-up paper with writing was on the table as well as on the ground. Ink marks were stained on the cedar wood.

The cup sat on the small coffee table between two velvet olive green chairs. I started picking up the crumpled papers one by one and placing them into the trash bin in the corner of the room by the table's feet. I quietly unzipped my bag of cleaning supplies and made my way towards the table. Sounds of quick pace Footsteps were made from down the hall. I snatched the cup and dug it deep in the bag, but as I looked up, Mrs. Robinson stood in the door frame, eyes open wide, face flushed red, with tense lips. Her posture grew stiff, then shook with rage as she pointed her finger at me.

"How dare you, you..you..you repulsive little..little.." I pushed past her, running. She shrieked incessantly, falling to the floor. I swung open the front door, grinning. I ran about three blocks with my bag and a new pair of sunglasses. Which was much needed on a Sunday like this.

-Rose E. Sinclair

***

"Why, Mrs. Sinclair?" the police officer asked as he took off his glasses, holding the file in one hand while rubbing his eyes with the other. "What was the purpose?"

I thought of the answer again before, well, if I ever got caught. "Because it felt right," I replied. He walked around the little room from corner to corner. The white painted bricks that were peeling, and the chair squeaking every time I shifted my legs. "You're not making my job any easier, Mrs. Sinclair." He looked me in the eyes, then at the 17 objects in a cardboard box on the table. He got up and walked over to the box and stuck his hands inside. "A rubber duck, a whisk, a plastic fish, a die, a deck of cards, and this... I mean, what the heck is this?" His face was puzzled as he held up an item.

"That's a wool card, sir, used in the 1700s to prepare wool fibers for spinning into thread."

He threw the handful of items in the box and his eyes looked straight at me, and his lips pursed; he was annoyed. "Look, Mrs. Sinclair, I can get you three months in the county jail if you're willing to work with me here, just answer me reasonably and no more nonsense. Why did you steal these items?"

I paused for a minute and collected my thoughts. I glanced at the photo on his desk. "Do you love your family officer?" He looked at me long and replied, "Well, yes, yes, I do." I looked him in the eyes. "Do you know your wife's favorite smell? Or do you know your daughter's favorite book?" I continued, "So many of us go about our lives without realizing what we have, don't you see? When you have everything, what more do you want? You're so occupied with what you have, you forget about what was there."

I looked at the box, "The little things, the little things are what we look past, the little things are the things we forget. Heck, if that wacko Mrs. Robinson hadn't seen me, she would have never even noticed, just like the 16 others."

The silence was loud; you could hear the phones ringing in the other rooms.

"Lavender," the officer said. "What?" I was confused. "Lavender," he repeated, "her favorite smell is lavender, and my little girl loves the Little House on the Prairie. I got them for her last birthday." He calmly got up, took the sunglasses off my face, and tossed them in the box. "I'm not sure those glasses match your style," he said with a grin as he walked out the door.

For once in a long time, I smiled, a real smile.

I slid the silver metal badge on the table and smiled.