Maid Service
By John Whittier Treat
From Bill’s point of view, that from the old divan where he was dozing, David’s half of the apartment looked like a mountain cabin. Bill wondered if there was another apartment in Boston’s Bay Village that did. Some buildings had the same bars on the same first-story windows that never opened onto the same noisy, narrow streets. But then, Bay Village, the city’s tiniest neighborhood, was where the workers who’d built Beacon Hill erected their own homes atop crushed oyster shells, so maybe others were as roughly hewn as this. Although a standing Chinese screen destroyed any illusion of rusticity, the knotted wood paneling and the unpainted rafters made Bill think of the place in rural Maine he’d gone as a child with his vacationing parents. There was th
