Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

Ethan Martin and his mother live a simple life in a small Southern town... with a twist: She makes dresses to pay the bills and he helps out as best he can.

Chapter Four: Maid to Order

Ethan gets another job opportunity.

Ethan was polishing the silverware on the back porch--something he’d learned to do without questioning his life choices--when he heard a sudden squawk from across the backyard fence.

“Good heavens, is that you, Ethan?”

He froze. Not from the name, but from the voice.

Mrs. Penelope Whitaker. Retired high school English teacher. Local garden club tyrant. Owner of five identical sun hats and a deeply judgmental cat named Gingersnap. Freshly returned from her annual Florida vacation.

Ethan turned slowly, clutching the towel and salad tongs like improvised weapons. His mom had been photographing him on the back patio--today’s outfit was a light blue sundress with white piping, complete with ankle socks and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She’d suggested he leave on the pretty frock while he did his chores--“You’ll find dresses more comfortable in this heat, plus you’ll do a better job,” she’d said, somehow maintaining a straight face.

“I--I was helping my mom with her sewing,” he blurted, suddenly aware of every ruffle and ribbon clinging to his person. “And I guess I forgot to change…”

Penelope Whitaker’s eyes twinkled behind her glasses.

“Oh, I see. Very helpful indeed,” she said, lips twitching. “My, don’t you look darling.”

Ethan turned beet red.

“I should go,” he mumbled, making a break for the kitchen door, but the elderly lady’s voice called out like a fishing line snagging a trout.

“Ethan, dear, wait--actually, you might be just the person I need!”

He paused, defeated.

Penelope leaned over the fence. “My cleaning girl just got married and quit, and my bursitis has been acting up. I could use a bit of help. Dusting, tidying, that sort of thing. And since you’re already so domestically inclined…” she added, letting the words hang like lace in the breeze.

Ethan opened his mouth to say no thank you or I’d rather be trampled by geese, but fate had other plans.

Colleen popped out of the screen door with a tray of iced tea. “Did I hear you need help, Penny?”

“Oh, just a bit of light cleaning, dear. Your son is so detail-oriented, I thought--”

“He’d love to! He could use the extra responsibility. Just so you know, he looks adorable in an apron.”

Ethan gasped. “Mom!”

Penelope smiled like a cat who’d just bought stock in a canary farm.

“Excellent. Every Wednesday, beginning at nine. I’ll pay you, of course. You’ll be my little domestic helper.”

Ethan didn’t remember agreeing. He only remembered the tray wobbling in his mother’s hands as she tried not to laugh.

* * *

Wednesdays with Whitaker became a permanent fixture. Ethan had hoped to wear normal clothes at first--T-shirt, jeans, sneakers--but Penelope Whitaker, ever the drama queen, insisted that wasn’t quite theatrical enough. And Colleen agreed.

“Be my good little helper, sweetheart,” she’d said, tying a floral print apron around the pink gingham dress she insisted he wear. “Auntie Penelope is so looking forward to having a pretty housemaid.”

“I’m not sure this is part of the job description,” Ethan muttered.

“Oh please. You know very well that you dust better when you look the part.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips and a wink. “And right now you look radiant.”

“Mom, please!” The cross-dressed boy sighed as he headed for the door. His mother was always saying stuff like that.

And so, Ethan stepped onto the tiled porch of the Whitaker house, his polished white flats making the faintest tap against the porcelain. He stood there for a moment, swallowing his nerves, one hand smoothing the front of his apron and the dress underneath--chosen, of course, by his mother. It was childish, sweet, and undeniably girlish, with puffed sleeves, a Peter Pan collar, and a little white bow at the neckline. A matching hair ribbon--tied too snugly by Colleen--kept his mop of brushed-out brown hair in a neat little halo that bounced with every nervous nod.

The cross-dressed boy rang the bell and the door opened before the second chime could finish.

“Ethan, my darling, welcome!” sang Penelope, dressed in a flowing lavender housecoat embroidered with tiny peacocks. “My goodness, don’t you look precious today! Like a sunbeam in a dress! Come in, my little house fairy.”

“Good morning, Auntie Penelope,” Ethan mumbled. Addressing the old woman as “auntie” had only begun as a few days before, but now his mother required that he do it as a sign of respect. “Thank you, Auntie Penelope.”

The old woman’s gray hair was swept up in a loose French twist, a long string of faux pearls bouncing against her collarbones. She wore perfume that smelled like talcum and violets and something just a little too sophisticated for a Wednesday morning.

“Well then,” she said, placing both hands on his shoulders and steering him toward the broom closet. “Let’s get my little Cinderella started. Floors first today, I think. That naughty hallway carpet hasn’t been beaten in weeks.”

“Yes, Auntie Penelope,” he murmured, already retrieving the vacuum. He caught a glimpse of himself in the parlor mirror as he passed: a prim little figure in a too-girly dress, knee socks neat, hemline just brushing the tops of his knees. His reflection frowned at him.

“You’re absolutely darling, and already you’re doing a wonderful job keeping me young. You know, I do believe you’re the prettiest maid this old house has ever had.”

Ethan flushed scarlet. “I’m not a maid,” he said under his breath.

“Of course you are,” she replied cheerily, flouncing back into the parlor. “But only once a week, and only the very best kind. The sort with manners and ribbons and polished shoes.”

The Whitaker home was a treasure trove of antiques and disorder--delicate porcelain figurines balanced on stacks of yellowed magazines, crystal dishes full of safety pins and spare change, crocheted doilies draped over armrests like lace spiderwebs. And dust. Plenty of dust accumulated during the old woman’s absence.

Ethan spent the bulk of the morning vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing under his employer’s doting gaze. She followed him from room to room with a glass of iced tea in one hand and a running commentary in the other. “Now don’t miss that corner--goodness, look at you on your hands and knees like a proper little housewife. Such dedication!”

Whenever Ethan paused, even to wipe sweat from his brow, she clucked and tapped her painted nails against a tabletop. “Posture, darling. Back straight. Elbows in. You’ve such a graceful little figure when you remember to move like a lady.”

“I'm not a lady,” he muttered.

“No, but you do a very good impression,” she said with a wink.

By midday, the parlor was dust-free and the kitchen shone. The lace curtains had been shaken out, the old stove polished, and the floor scrubbed to a dull glow. Penelope beamed at him as she prepared a sandwich plate--neatly cut triangles with crusts removed, a porcelain cup of milk beside it. Lemon vanilla macarons for dessert.

“There we are. Sit down properly now, legs together. That’s it. I do adore watching you grow into such a tidy little domestic thing.”

Ethan chewed quietly, unsure whether he felt more, pride or embarrassment. His dress was damp with perspiration, his ribbon slipping slightly, but Penelope’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Now for the ironing,” she said. “Your mother says you’re practically an expert.”

“Well, I do some ironing, but I’m not really--“

“Perfect! I can’t wait to see you in action.” Penelope smirked. “There’s nothing like a boy at the board to warm an old lady’s heart.”

He took it with a sigh.

And as he pressed blouses and tea cloths beneath the hiss of steam, she began to hum to herself in her rocking chair, the gentle notes of some long-forgotten waltz drifting through the house.

He blushed again when she called out, “Be sure to press the pleats just so, Ethan.”

* * *

It was nearly three o’clock when Penelope rose from her chair, her house slippers whispering over the freshly waxed floor. Ethan had just finished folding the last of the linens, carefully stacking them in the wooden armoire by the hallway. He tugged gently at the collar of his dress--itchy now from dust and heat--and stole a quick glance at the clock, hopeful.

“Oh no, my sweet one,” Penelope said cheerfully, reading his thoughts like tea leaves. “We’re not quite finished. There’s a very important task left.”

Ethan blinked. I’m never getting out of here, he thought.

“More dusting, Auntie?”

She smiled slyly. “No, no, my darling boy. Something much more delightful.” She held up a purple folder. “We’re going to rehearse!”

“Rehearse what?” he asked warily.

Penelope’s eyes twinkled behind her lavender glasses. “The little tea play, of course! I’ve been working on it all week. A single scene. I’ll be Lady Witherspoon, and you--you’ll be Louise, my devoted parlor maid. We’ll practice it together, just like the old vaudeville ladies used to do. It’ll be splendid fun!”

“Louise?” Ethan stepped back. “Auntie Penelope, I--I didn’t know anything about a play.”

“Oh, pshaw!” she said sweetly. “But you do love pretending, don’t you? After all, you’re quite good at it.”

He didn’t respond, so she spun him around and gave him a little shove. “Go on now, Louise. Up to the guest room with you. I’ve laid everything out. You’ll find it fits like a dream.”

* * *

The guest room smelled faintly of sachets and rose powder. Spread across the floral coverlet was his costume--a vintage-style maid’s uniform in pale gray and white cotton, freshly laundered and stiff with starch. The skirt was pleated and full, ending just below the knee with a petticoat hanging beside it. There was a pair of white cotton gloves, a delicate lace-edged apron with long ties, a ruffled mob cap, and--he blinked--a pair of white bloomers folded next to some black tights and a pair of low patent leather heels.

A handwritten note in blue ink was pinned to the collar:

Please present yourself properly. I’ll be in the parlor with the script and a tea tray. No dawdling, dear heart.

Ethan stood for a long minute, just staring. Then he sighed. Deeply. And began to change.

* * *

Downstairs, Penelope was already seated in her best armchair, a silver tray arranged with petit fours and two mismatched teacups. A feathered hat perched atop her curls, and she held a script printed on pastel stationery.

When Ethan appeared in the doorway, every inch the bashful parlor maid, her hands flew to her chest.

“Oh my. You take the breath right out of my bones, child. Come, Louise! Come into the light.”

He stepped forward, cheeks glowing, skirt swishing delicately. The uniform fit too well--the bodice crisp and tight, the waist snug, the sleeves slightly puffed. He had done up the apron himself, double-knotting the bow behind him just like his mother had taught. The cap perched on his head made his freshly brushed hair poof out in the most ridiculous way.

“Let’s see,” Penelope murmured, circling him. “Hem straight. Stockings snug and neat. Apron tidy. Oh yes, the ankles! Together, please, and a slight bend of the knees when you serve.” She cupped his chin, adjusting his expression like a painter fine-tuning a portrait. “Soft smile. But with dignity, Louise! You’re not a dolly--you’re a young lady in service.”

“I’m not--”

“Hush now, Louise. We begin.”

* * *

The scene was simple. Lady Witherspoon sat reading letters by the fireplace. Louise the maid entered, curtsied, and offered tea. Then came a flurry of dialogue, mostly scolding about the tea being “slightly over-steeped” and the sugar “not cubed precisely.”

“You’re to reply, ‘Yes, milady, at once, milady,’” Penelope coached. “And tilt the tray when you offer it--like this.”

Ethan obeyed, repeating the lines in a falsetto that surprised even him.

“Very good. Again--but this time with grace. One does not plop into a scene.”

They rehearsed for nearly thirty minutes. Penelope corrected everything: the angle of his bow, the way he held the tea towel, even how he turned his wrist when setting a saucer down.

And then there was the matter of Ethan’s--well, Louise’s--curtsy. The first couple of times Penelope let him get by, but she was very particular on this matter and insisted that he pay more attention and get it right.

“Pluck the hem… no, sweetheart, with both hands… left foot back, bend slightly at the knees, then dip, and then hold. You don’t have to touch your hem if your hands are full. Yes. Very good. Let’s do it again… Louise,” she said with a giggle.

This went on for quite a while, repetition after repetition until Ethan lost count. Finally, after what seem forever, Penelope burst into gleeful applause as he executed a perfect curtsy.

“Lovely, just lovely. Now, recite your line… ‘Forgive me, milady--I shall brew it anew with all the care I possess’. Come on, darling, you can do it! I have faith.”

The weary boy performed another curtsy, and followed up with his line.

“Bravo, Louise! You’re a natural. Honestly, you’ve missed your calling. The little theater troupe in town would faint to have you.”

“I’m not joining a theater troupe,” he said quickly.

“No, no,” she sighed, patting his gloved hand. “But still, you do bring such poetry to a petticoat.”

* * *

When Colleen arrived just after five, she found her son still in costume, kneeling in front of the fireplace with a feather duster and the perfect parlor pout.

“Well, look at you,” Colleen chuckled. “Have we graduated from housemaid to stage maid?”

Ethan stood up quickly, brushing off his skirt. “She made me rehearse a play.”

“I coached you, darling,” Penelope corrected, rising with a theatrical bow. “Louise is coming along marvelously. Just wait till you hear his ‘Yes, milady.’ Why, it sent shivers down my spine.”

“Who’s Louise?”

Ethan sighed. “I am Louise, milady.” He curtsied before he realized what he’d done.

Colleen laughed. “My goodness, he does take direction well, doesn’t he?”

Ethan blushed, muttered something inaudible, and headed to change his clothes.

But Penelope held up one finger. “Not so fast, Louise. A proper little maid changes only after her duties are complete. You may disrobe once you’ve said goodbye properly--but before that please bring your mother a cup of tea.”

Colleen smiled at her son and winked. “That would be very nice. Thank you, Louise. I’ll have two lumps, please, and milk if you don’t mind.”

And so, with a sigh and a swish, Louise shuffled off to the kitchen--teacup in hand, apron still tied, and a blush that never left.

Next up: The “Salesgirl”