I pull the fitted sheet with my two-fisted grip and press my lips together in a show of extra effort. It slowly slips off the thick memory foam mattress and snaps back, sending me backwards and unsteady on my feet. My expensive sneakers cradle my body and balance it again. I’m six hours into what should be an eight-hour shift but will more than likely stretch to a longer one. A longer one without overtime. It’s illegal, but no one is going to come out here and do anything about it.

People that don’t change soiled sheets tell me I should be grateful for this job. Didn’t used to be a lot of choices here in Honea Path due to it being a small town. Then some Chiclet toothed developer came along and turned the old Chiquola Mill into luxury housing complete with a boutique hotel and shops. Now I clean up after people that can afford $329 a night plus tax to visit my town for the authentic “Southern” experience.

Rich people are disgusting. Take it from me. I spend at least eight hours a day wondering how they can leave a room looking like a crime scene.

With just me to support my little Faye Ann, though, I don’t see my situation changing. Besides, this is where I was born and raised. Can’t walk around town without looking into a face that didn’t know me when I was little.

A face that knew my grandparents. A face that knew my mama. A face that knows what happened to my husband. A face that knows I can’t hear all that great, so you better be in front of me when you speak so I can read your lips.

As I roll up the filthy sheets and shove them in my cart, I reach down for a fresh set, setting off spasms in my low back. I drop to my knees and wait for the pain to run through me, finishing off with a tingle in my lower legs. As I kneel in front of the thick mattress, I involuntarily clasp my hands together as if in prayer to this shit hole job I’ve trapped myself in.

The small diamond chip in my ring catches the light and taunts me, reminding me that I’m by myself. The ring and Faye Ann being the only things that still exist from my marriage. He still exists, but he isn’t doing me any good locked up in Perry Correctional.

I need to gather myself as my grandmother, Lorna Bible, Mama B to most, used to say. She meant physically make myself presentable. I lost the time for that years ago, so now I concentrate on gathering my thoughts in the hopes I can peel myself from the floor.

I wrestle my cart out of the room and into the hallway flooded with light from the floor to ceiling windows. The developer kept what he called the charming parts of the old mill. Not sure how a place that once was witness to an event called Bloody Thursday can be charming, but damn if he wasn’t right. The windows are a dark stained wood with just the right amount of wear for character. Looks more like a Pottery Barn ad than an old cotton mill built in 1903.

In many ways, nothing has changed inside the Chiquola. Well, now it’s called the Mill at Chiquola. Reminds me of fancy restaurant menus that are really just hamburgers and fries. A six ounce patty of beef served on a brioche bun with your choice of side. But the Chiquola is still cradling the haves while forcing the have nots into servitude.

I make it into the elevator and down to the third floor before having to stop. The doors open to reveal yet another couple on a short getaway from the kids. Both indulging in some quality time in my quaint town. They come here to have sex in sheets I have to touch, and then they stroll through the local lavender farm oohing and aahing as if flowers don’t exist anywhere else.

He holds the elevator door as she wraps her arms around her middle to make herself smaller, so she doesn’t have to touch the housekeeper.

I smile but do not say hello. We’ve been instructed to not interact with guests unless they speak first. The man clears his throat and points to my name tag.

“Nora, is it? Must be nice to work in such a beautiful and historical place all day.”

I hate it when guests notice me or worse yet use my name and try to connect. Does he really think it’s nice to clean his skid marks out of the toilet each morning? I should ask his wife how she feels about doing it the other days of the week. We could have ourselves a mutiny in this tiny elevator like nothing the old mill has ever seen.

“Yes. It’s lovely.”

The wife unwraps herself, comfortable now to take up more space.

“It’s such a beautiful place, but it has such a dark past. I didn’t sleep well. I told Clint I think it’s haunted.”

I treat her to another smile but with no teeth, thinking to myself that she wasn’t far off about this place being haunted. The old mill has a way of pulling people into its bowels and not letting them go. Trapping them even if they weren’t physically in the building, like its reach went out and into the town itself. The husband, Clint, clears his throat again.

“Yes. I saw the small monument for the seven people killed in Bloody Thursday. So sad those people didn’t choose to move along rather than fight.”

Yes, Clint, so sad. My hands turn into fists by my sides, so I quickly flex my fingers to try and release some of the anger coursing through me. The elevator finally dings, and its doors slowly open to reveal the lobby. Clint holds the door again for his wife. As it closes on their judgment, I treat them both to the double finger. Clueless assholes.

My shift lasts about an hour longer than it should, and I don’t bother changing out of my uniform for the walk home. With only one income, I save where I can, so my feet get me where I need to be. These feet will soon be taking me to my second job at the Sally Rose Bed and Breakfast in Anderson. Well, they’ll be taking me to my coworker Maureen’s house to catch a ride.

As I pass by the small green space on Ervin Street, I spot a blonde ponytail on a bench. Faye Ann’s legs are swinging back and forth as if she’s trying to work them hard enough that she will take off for the sky.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting on you, mama. It’s hotter inside the house than it is outside. My walk turned into a longer adventure, so I thought I would just wait until you pass by.”

Guilt mixed with happiness rushes over me. My ten-year-old shouldn’t have to be bothered with overheated houses and a mama she can’t keep track of. She doesn’t have many friends in town. It’s not exactly a place people flock to and raise children. But I’m glad she has the freedom to make the small town her playground. Although, I wish she would reconsider labor movement memorials and cemeteries as her playgrounds.

I sit down beside her and stretch my aching legs out in front of me, smoothing my wrinkled uniform over my lap. Faye Ann jumps down and wanders over to the concrete marker for those lost in the labor union movement.

“How are they doing today?”

She brushes off some non-existent dirt from the top of the monument, letting her fingers trace the etched names. When she first became interested in the monument, I was mortified. I didn’t want my young daughter knowing about such cruelty just yet.

“Good. Still aren’t happy about the motel.”

I correct her. “Boutique hotel and small community living experience.”

We both laugh at ourselves, and she sits criss cross applesauce in the dirt.

“Mr. Ira thinks me calling it the motel is funny, and I like making him smile.”

I bristle at the thought of a man dead since 1934 talking to my child, but I try not to show it.

“Well you tell Mr. Ira that we need to head on home now. I’m already behind, and we still need to stop at the grocery store for a few things.”

Faye Ann pops up and brushes the pine needles and dirt off her shorts. She kisses her hand and pats the concrete marker seven times. A kiss for each body in the ground.

“See you tomorrow fellas!”

She skips towards me and takes my hand. As we stroll down the sidewalk lined with shade trees and revitalized mill houses, I’m struck by the beauty of this place. Her history is filled with violence and cruelty, and yet she’s gorgeous. Funny how that can be.

“Mama, can we go to Blue Creek and cool off?”

I nod and pull on her ponytail to get her closer to me. I take in the late afternoon and try not to think about the rest of my evening.