Unknown - White slave

Margaret Sorenson spilled another quarter-cup of Spic 'n Span into the plastic wash bucket and swirled it around with her delicate hand, feeling the grit instantly dissolve into sterile suds. She churned the suds to life and dipped her scrub brush into the hot soapy water to continue the humble task of scrubbing years of accumulated wax from the yellowed floor of her landlord's kitchen. Her modest red and white checkered house dress, still speckled with furniture polish from yesterday's house cleaning, pulled across her lap to expose her slim thighs. Margaret poked a finger to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her nape-tied scarf and, wiping a purling drop of sweat from her unwrinkled brow with a swipe of her sudsy hand, sat up to admire the rewards of her plebeian task. In an arm's stretch semi-circle around her, an oasis of white glistened in a desert of sandy yellow. Another two hours of sweating and scrubbing and backache, and she would have worked off one week's rent here at her Geary Street apartment in downtown San Francisco. But the thirty-eight year old woman refused to complain; at least she had a roof over her head, which was a lot more than many women in her situation could brag of.

The proud Swede had seen many an unfortunate woman in the social security collection lines. Single women, many not over forty, bent and stunted from malnutrition and medical neglect, a hive of buzzing, scraggly children at each side, pulling on her work-wearied body, each claiming a part of a mother who hadn't the energy left to enjoy her blessing of motherhood. And in the welfare lines too unkempt, dirty hair, worn-down heels on blistering over-sized shoes bought for a quarter at St. Vincent de Paul's. The poverty and humility brought tears to Margaret's eyes. No, she would never resort to such poverty, even now in her widowed years. She would work off her debts with honest physical labor and not complain how many backaching hours it took to satisfy Roger Blasser's insistent demands.

After all, as landlord's go, he had been sympathetic enough to appreciate her dour situation since Sandor was killed in the construction accident down south of Market Street. Then, too, her poverty was only a temporary inconvenience; the union lawyers were working overtime trying to get a court date to settle the lawsuit involving Sandor Sorenson's needless death in the explosion that rocketed him twenty feet in the air to crash on the steel beams still loaded on the flat-bed truck below. When the case was finally settled, the union lawyers anticipated a $500,000 settlement for his death, plus another $100,000 for her trauma and personal loss; that didn't include either of Sandor's two life insurance policies that would come due in two months.

When her ship came in, she'd pack up her modest belongings and buy a ticket back to Sweden where her relatives were crying for her. But that was in the future and the thirty-eight year old husbandless blonde realized she must cope with the squalor of her existence until she could free herself. She would put up with the wheezing hydraulic brakes of the city's busses that roared beneath her bedroom window, and the cockroaches that infested every openly seeping draining in the soon-to-be condemned apartment house where a conglomerate of centurians, widows, taxi drivers, hippies left over from the flower days of Haight Street, and single-parented children hovelled in the ruins of what was once an elegant place to call home. It had its amenities, too. The rent was extraordinarily cheap for San Francisco, and transportation was readily available for people like Margaret who couldn't afford a car. Then, too, the landlord would accept excuses when the rent was late, like now; or better, still, he would accept what humble labor she could offer in exchange for a place to call home.

In the three years she had occupied her third floor one-bedroom apartment here on Geary Street, she had grown comfortable and had made friends with some of the occupants who shared the ten-story eyesore. After Sandor's death the widower from upstairs whose television set she had tolerated at three o'clock in the morning for three yeas without protest, ingratiated himself by inviting her up for coffee and to watch the afternoon soap operas. And Lola from across the hall had invited her to Saturday afternoon matinees. So it wasn't as if nobody appreciated her loss. Roger, too, had invited her to his apartment on several occasions, a truth which brought a blush to her cheeks and she kneed over to the far corner of the kitchen, pushing her sloshing mop bucket along ahead of her.

Roger she mused, watching the water drip from the natural bristle scrub brush before descending it to the floor. Roger had been more than kind. Sandor wouldn't approve of her cooking and cleaning for another man, she thought guiltily; but what was she to do? Spend the rest of her life holed-up crocheting and mending house-dresses? Ah, it was silly! There wasn't anything between she and Roger. Margaret levered herself to her knees and elbows and dug the brush into the yellowed linoleum, watching cakes of dirt and wax lift like magic. But her mind wasn't on the floor, it was on Roger. Roger would be home soon, and for some unexplainable reason, she didn't want him to see her on elbows and knees like a common scrub lady. She was only thirty-eight; she had time to live and love.

Oh, sure, he'd kissed her one time and hugged her, lifting her off the floor with his strong Arabian arms. But that was just kidding around, nothing serious. Roger liked women, Margaret knew with a small pang of jealousy. She'd seen several women, all dressed for the night club and heavily made-up, leaving his apartment at strange hours. Margaret sat up on her haunches, yanking down her dress that had hiked up to her thighs. Yes, she reasoned generously, Roger should have many women, he surely had the looks of a lady's man with his black thick hair and rich tanned skin. For a man of forty-five, he still carried himself in a dignified manner, straight and tall and strong. Margaret liked that. Sandor had been a strong man.

Tonight she would cook for him. Oh, he wasn't subtracting anything off of the rent for her kitchen labors, but he'd once said he loved meatballs and gravy, and Swedish meatballs was her dish and it would be good having a man praise her cooking again. It had been so long so darned long since she'd had anything to look forward to.

Margaret had cleared the gravy-smeared plates and run warm water from the dripping faucet to rinse them off before the cock-roaches decided it was time for a meal and came lurking out of the woodwork in silent armies. In the living room off the kitchen, she could hear the television set's scratchy roar; it sounded like a baseball game. Suddenly she remembered the world series season was upon fans everywhere; Sandor had always watched it, too, sitting in his favorite overstuffed chair, nursing a can of cold beer. The remembrance brought a smile to her lipsticked lips. Running a dishpan full of hot water, she set the dirty dishes in to soak and walked into the screen-lit room to sit beside Roger.

Roger smiled down at the blonde woman beside him and slipped his arm around her, never taking his eyes off the television set. Somehow it all seemed comfortable, and Margaret felt no guilt at this man showing a gesture of absent-minded affection toward her. She basked contentedly, sitting back on the aging springs of the sofa, and pulled a hand crocheted afghan over her knees that had been folded and thrown over the back. Her full stomach and after dinner glass of wine suddenly made her feel drowsy and she took the silent liberty of resting her head on Roger's shoulder.

"You're a hell of a cook," whispered Roger when the Gillette commercial interrupted the game. The Arabian landlord gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. His hand felt strong and powerful through the thin fabric of her cotton dress.