A Different Perspective, by Deborah Sweeney

Broken Eggs, by Jean-Baptize Greuze (France) 1756

A Different Perspective
 
Early summer sunlight filters through the irregular glass panes of the kitchen’s only window. Shadows cling to the corners and darkness grapples with the light. On this morning, the light claims victory. Élise proceeds to clean the remnants of the predawn meal off the crude wooden table, humming a popular love ballad to herself. A white ceramic teapot and the brown milk pitcher, along with a rumpled cloth, are the final items waiting to be cleared. Voices approach the outer door as she picks the egg basket off the table.
 
 A small shadow bolts across the kitchen, rocketing towards Élise. She releases a blood-curdling scream as she plummets downward, the basket jettisoned as she braces herself for impact.
 
The kitchen door flies open and bangs against the wall. The newcomers pause to absorb the scene before erupting in a cacophony of sound. The mistress becomes unhinged when she spies the broken eggs strewn across the floor.  Élise attempts to right herself but only manages to sit and clutch her knee. The radiating pain prevents her from moving any further.
 
The mistress lunges towards Élise, gesturing at the fallen basket with her gnarled fingers. Henri steps forward to restrain his mother. In her present state, she may strike Élise, an unforgiveable act in Henri’s eyes. Unable to advance past her son, the mistress grabs his outstretched arm and glares in his direction.
 
 “Stupid girl!” the mistress says, her voice rising in volume. “Clumsy idiot! How are we supposed to sell eggs at the market today if you break them all?”
 
“Calm down, Maman,” Henri says, removing his hat. He takes a moment to glance at the damaged produce at his feet before continuing to placate his mother. “Élise did not mean to break the eggs. It was an accident.”
 
Thank goodness for Henri. Élise takes a slow breath. It was not an accident. That infuriating child knocked me down on purpose. Her knee twinges as she surveys the floor. Please just go away so I can clean up this mess.
 
“I do not know why I agreed to take you on. You have been trouble since the day you arrived,” the mistress says. Her words sting, a verbal slap that Élise has heard many times over the last few months.
 
Élise remains silent. By now, she knows not to respond when the mistress spews her venom. It’s not like I chose to come here. I had no other option.
 
 “Maman, do you need help loading the rest of the wagon?” says Henri, “It’s late. We must get going. Our stall will not be set up on time.” His plaintive tone catches his mother’s attention at last.
 
Henri wraps his arm over his mother’s shoulders and steers her towards the door, away from Élise and the broken eggs. The mistress continues to mutter curses as Henri leads her outside. Before he closes the door, he turns and offers Élise a faint smile. She exhales and releases the tension from her shoulders. She looks up and observes Armand playing in the corner. His presence had been forgotten during the Mistress’s tirade. What is he doing over there?
 
Élise braces herself, pushes off the floor, and settles on the wooden bench next to the table. Dirt smudges her apron where she hit the ground. She brushes the marks off before examining her knee. The layers of fabric from her skirt and petticoats conceal a large multi-colored bruise blooming on her left kneecap. At least it isn’t bleeding. Élise recites a quick prayer of gratitude to Saint Roch, the patron saint of knee complaints, then focuses her attention on the far corner of the room.
 
She stands and limps around the basket. Shattered egg shells and their liquid remains ooze across the floor. Armand leans against a small, oaken half-cask, facing away from Élise. The boy mutters to himself and she cannot make out his words.
 
“Armand, what are you doing?” Élise says with authority.
 
Startled, the boy turns. In his hands, he clutches a broken egg. His innocent brown eyes look up at Élise. They glow with pleasure as his lips break into a wide grin. Egg white drips between his fingers as he lifts his treasure for Élise to see.
 
 “Gold!” Armand says, as he opens his hand and presents the yolk.
 
 “Yes, Armand. It’s gold.” She sighs and grits her teeth. “Next time, just ask me, and I will give you an egg of your very own to play with.”
 
 The child’s eyes brighten, growing even larger with delight. “Oh, thank you, ‘Lise!” Armand says, his slight lisp evident, before throwing his arms around her skirts.
 
She shrieks. “Mon Dieu! Do not touch me with your filthy hands!” She shoves the boy away as she rolls her eyes heavenward. “Take your treasure outside,” she says, pointing towards the door.
 
Armand obliges, skips out of the kitchen, and disappears into the sunshine. He leaves Élise behind, cleaning up his trail of broken shells and splattered yolks.
 
Deborah Sweeney

Deborah Sweeney lives and writes in Northern California. She is a former elementary school teacher who spends her days making art, attending classes at the local community college, and researching her family history.​