Crumbs

This story is by Sandy Juker and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

April 1931 – The Great Depression

My four-year-old son tugged at the frayed hem of my maid’s uniform. “Grammy’s hungry, Mama.” His translucent skin, stretched over protruding cheek bones, stirred an ache deep in my gut. A pain sharper than the rumble of hunger.

“I know, Raymond.” His hair under my palm lay limp and lifeless. “I’ll make juice. You can share it with Grammy.”

His sunken eyes peered over the counter at the lemon I’d stolen from my employer. I rolled the fruit with my palm and squeezed every ounce of life from its pulp. Today it would be my son’s breakfast. Four stolen olives and a bread crust would be his lunch.

Raymond grabbed the lemon rind from the plate. His eyes closed, and his nose wrinkled as he sucked every life-giving drop of tartness. He sank his teeth into the pulp, tearing it from the peel, like a dog with a bone.

Tears burned and trickled down my face as I divided the precious juice between two glasses. I licked a drip from the plate, wincing as my empty stomach tightened.

I kissed my son’s citrusy lips and straightened my uniform. “I’ll see you after work, sweet boy.”

***

“It’s about time you made an appearance,” the head housekeeper snapped. “Deliver Mr. Blanchard’s dishes to the kitchen, immediately.” Her ample girth jiggled as she marched away.

“Yes, ma’am.” I hurried to the dining room. A surge of saliva pooled in my mouth at a lingering hint of bacon. I swallowed in anticipation, but the banker’s plate was empty. Faint from hunger, I bent over and licked smears of egg yolk, bacon grease, and maple syrup. The sweetness melted on my tongue.

“Girl! What the hell are you doing?”

I jerked upright, turning toward the shadowed corner of the room. “Um, uh… Mr. Blanchard. I’m, I’m so sorry.”

“I should think so.” Hissing spittle announced his disgust. “What is your name?” He stepped forward, fists clenched across his rotund belly.

Emboldened by hopelessness, I hissed back. “Audrey. My name is Audrey. For eight months I’ve cleaned up after you, surviving on your crumbs while you grow fat and my son starves.”

He pointed a meaty finger down the hall. “Miss Audrey, you’re fired.”

I rushed forward. “No! Please, give me another chance. My son…”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe in second chances.”

***

I stumbled down the mansion’s back steps. Salty tears dampening my lips as I envisioned Raymond’s skeletal remains lying in a pine box.

At the bottom of the stairs, I spun back, considering a new vision. The contents of Mr. Blanchard’s bureau.

In the drawer where I placed his freshly laundered personals, he kept a snub-nosed revolver. Like the one my dear departed husband had used to escape the impossible task of providing for his family. A decision I was beginning to understand.

I dashed into the house, avoiding the dining room. I ran up the grand staircase, cringing at the watchful eyes of ancestral portraits as I hurried to the master bedroom.

Inside, I leaned against the closed door, my heart and lungs thumping in my chest. Each breath rasped between my teeth as I scanned the room’s luxurious furnishings. Prisms of light spun around me. I blinked at a crystal chandelier.

The room was larger than the shanty where my mother and son huddled together, sipping lemon juice to survive. Enraged by such excess, I crossed the room, opened the bureau drawer, and tossed undergarments to the floor.

Loaded and ready, the nickel-plated revolver fit perfectly in my hand, just as it did the many times I had aimed it at Blanchard’s bed pillow.

Sliding a finger along the gun’s short barrel, I wondered about my husband’s last thoughts. How had our child’s future, without a father, seemed like a better outcome? Did he expect me to take up whoring to feed our son? I spat on the floor.

I set the gun on the bed and stepped through the door to the adjoining room. An abundance of lace and silk adorned the late Mrs. Blanchard’s spacious bed chamber.

I paused at the dresser mirror and glared at the emaciated stranger who stared back at me. I shimmied out of the baggy uniform and kicked my tattered loafers across the room. I pulled the pins from the chignon at the nape of my neck, letting my hair swing to my waist.

From the walk-in closet, I selected a pale blue tea dress with a drop waist and layered hem. After Madeline Blanchard’s demise, keeping her room pristine became my responsibility. I was familiar with every dress, hat, purse, and pair of shoes in the vast wardrobe.

After grooming my hair with Madeline’s silver-plated vanity brush, I wound the tresses into a bun and tucked it under a cloche hat. Carmine lipstick, white stockings, and a pair of silver trimmed T-strap sandals completed the ensemble. I returned to the master bedroom.

As I picked up the revolver, I glanced at my reflection in the Cheval mirror. I raised the snubby, blew across the end of the barrel, and kicked up a heel. A strange tinkling laughter escaped my mouth. I tucked the gun into Madeline’s finest beaded clutch and blew a kiss at the delirious woman in the mirror.

***

I descended the stairs, one hand sliding along the oak banister, one clutching the purse.

“Excuse me, madam. May I help you?” The housekeeper gazed up from the landing.

I halted my descent, barely recognizing the woman’s voice. Such politeness. She had no idea she was speaking to the discharged maid.

“Why, yes, you may. Mr. Blanchard and I have a lunch date, and I seem to be lost.” A slight British lilt supported the charade.

“He’s in the den, ma’am. Please follow me.” She tipped her head in respect.

I stifled a giggle, wondering if she’d curtsey when I reached the bottom step.

At the doorway to the den, I strode past the housekeeper. “Thank you for your assistance. I will manage from here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She huffed at the dismissal but walked away.

Mr. Blanchard looked up when I closed the door. I approached his massive desk. “Franklin, delighted to see you.” I slipped my hand into the clutch. “I’m here to collect on a debt.”

His face transitioned from an expression of surprise to a pinched-brow scowl. “What? What debt?” He stood up, his chair rolling across the hardwood floor. “Who are you?”

“We met just this morning.” I pulled his gun from Madeline’s purse. “I’m Audrey. The plate-licking maid.” I eyed the cookie dish on his desk. My stomach rumbled.

He backed up, raising his hands. “I’m not giving your job back.” Like a cornered rat, his gaze shifted from side to side.

“Oh, I know better than to work for the likes of you.” My stomach growled, and I grabbed the last snickerdoodle. “You’re going to save my son’s life.” The cookie crumbled as I shoved it into my mouth.

“How can I do that? I’m no doctor.”

I pointed at the safe behind him. “His salvation is right there. You’re going to pull money out of that vault.” I swallowed and licked my lips, imagining the biggest steak in town on my son’s plate.

The banker pulled out his money clip. “I’ll give you your week’s pay and not a penny more.” He tossed seven one-dollar bills on the desk. “Now go!”

I gripped the revolver with both hands. “Open the safe.”

He scoffed. “I don’t take orders from little girls.”

“You don’t believe I’ll shoot?” I cocked the gun and pointed it at his groin. “Pick one. Left, or right?”

He dropped to his knees, both hands across his loins. “Wait! I’ll open it.”

I laughed as his bravado melted to a whimper. “Wise choice.”

He crawled to the vault, fumbled with the dial, and opened the door.

“Set the cash box on the desk and move back.”

I lifted the lid and thumbed through stacks of bills. “Have you been skimming?” Like an accusing finger, I shook the revolver at him.

He flicked a glance at the vault. “No, of course not.”

I stepped back and pointed my chin at the safe. “Place those ledgers on the desk.”

I flipped through the pages. “Ya know, I wasn’t always a maid. Before the crash, I was a bookkeeper. Oh, my! The bank would be interested in these discrepancies.”

Blanchard paled. “No! Please. You can have your job back. I’ll double your pay. Give me another chance to make it right for you and your dear son.”

A quick flick knocked the cookie plate clattering onto the floor. “Keep your crumbs.” I tapped the leather-bound books. “I’ve got what I need. You’ll see to it that my dear son never starves again.”

I tucked the ledgers under my arm and picked up the cash box. “Besides, you don’t believe in second chances.”