Willy Williams used to clean my mother's house every other Tuesday. When my father retired, my mother decided that it was too extravagant of her to spend so much money, so I asked Willy to come to my house on the second Tuesday. I am always relieved when he pulls up in his huge brown Chrysler station wagon. He whizzes through my house, shining the windows, vacuuming, polishing floors, organizing my cellar, advising me on how to get rid of mice, how to get my flowers in the front yard to flourish. He can't understand why I won't let him use any of those napalm-like stove cleaners, why I'd rather have a slightly less clean oven.

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