Read Online My Mrs. Brown by William Norwich - Free Book Online

Concerned, she’d rushed to her employer’s aid that morning, too. She had discovered Bonnie akimbo upon her desk being made love to—the only polite term for the corpulent mashing that she saw—by Solomon Aquilino, owner of the barbershop next door.
    Solomon, hairier than a goat, and Bonnie were married at the time, except not to each other.
    Mrs. Brown might have been provincial, but she wasn’t all that easy to shock. Seeing Bonnie and Solomon going at it had rattled her but did not shock her—well, so much corpulence in such fast motion was disturbing. It was an awful lot of flesh so early in the morning for her—for anyone—to see.
    Bonnie had made her promise she would never say a word, and Mrs. Brown never did, not even telling Mrs. Fox when she asked that night how her day had gone. Her discretion endeared her to her boss, although Bonnie never made this apparent in the salon when the beauticians were around. Too bad, it would have helped Mrs. Brown. The beauticians were often dismissive and belittling.
    â€œAAAAaaaaahhhhhmmmmm . . .”
    Now, though, fearing the worst, Mrs. Brown rushed into Bonnie’s office ready to grab the phone and call for an ambulance.
    Bonnie, fully clothed in blue jeans, a blue and white striped, long-sleeve T-shirt, her platform pink espadrilles by her side, was seated on the floor in the lotus yoga position facing the full-length mirror on her office wall, and as she explained when she saw Mrs. Brown, she was chanting.
    She waved her finely manicured right hand, her nails painted a deep black-red, and mouthed the words “skim latte doppio,” her beverage of choice, which Mrs. Brown had learned how to make on the fancy espresso and cappuccino machine in the salon’s kitchen. Besides cleaning and sweeping, her job included mending Bonnie’s clothes and taking and making beverage orders for the staff and clientele. Sometimes, if the salon was very busy, she was given the okay to outsource the drinks order at the Village Cheese Shop next door, but her lattes, so carefully prepared, were better.
    â€œMy niece,” Bonnie explained when Mrs. Brown returned with her coffee, “taught me last night how to chant for money—well, actually not money but for her guru’s good grace and high, very high connections with the Source, which translates into abundance, which translates into money—and so that’s what I was doing. I’m broke, well, like, I could be broke soon like every other motherfucker in this country. So I’m chanting. How are you?” Bonnie asked, ripping the corner of a packet of sugar substitute and pouring it into her latte.
    Mrs. Brown’s time at the beauty parlor rarely required that she divulge anything personal. No one inquired about her well-being, and that was okay; privacy is its own luxury. But today she offered some intimate detail of her own.
    â€œMe, too. I am thinking about ways to find more money.”
    â€œSssh, quiet,” Bonnie said, her index finger to her lips. “My niece says to shore up our money potential we shouldn’t talk about it with anyone. Never break the spell when you’re incubating. I hope we already haven’t said too much!”
    The beauticians soon arrived, and the day was off full gallop, beginning with the first client, the wife of the mayor of Ashville, and she was dissatisfied with her color, again.
    Mrs. Brown found the turquoise work jacket that she was required to wear (the beauticians could dress as they liked, which Mrs. Brown didn’t mind because their choices in what they wore kept things interesting.) She grabbed her broom. Bonnie had given her a new one for Christmas along with a card that informed her that a donation in her name had been made to advance the efforts of the Dalai Lama. Mrs. Brown got to work, a full and busy day, a worker among workers, always a source of pride, except Mrs. Brown worked harder than