Just tables, brushes, coffee, and a quiet place to spend two hours being something besides a caregiver.
Mother would have complained about the attention.
Then secretly loved it.
Two years after Clara entered my house as a maid, we stood together at the opening of a second community center.
She had paint on her sleeve.
I was holding three folding chairs because someone had mistaken me for useful labor.
Clara looked delighted.
“This is good for you.”
“My company employs sixteen thousand people.”
“And today you have successfully moved furniture.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She laughed.
A woman approached and thanked Clara for the program.
Then she turned to me.
“Are you her husband?”
Clara nearly choked.
“No,” we said together.
The woman looked embarrassed.
“Brother,” Clara explained.
My brother.
My sister.
The words had stopped sounding unusual.
Later that evening, after everyone left, Clara and I sat on the front steps.
