by L. S. Young
“Hush!” snapped Eric, reddening.
“I’ve had enough,” said Henry. “If y’all don’t send these gals home, I will. Ya don’t see me draggin’ my sister along.”
“Your sister is two and still on the tit!”
Ida stamped her foot, the red ribbons in her honey-hued hair bobbing. “Don’t tell my brother what to do!” she shrieked at Henry. “Landra and I never get to play with you all. You oughta let us come along.”
“Don’t see a need for sendin’ Landra back,” said Eric, coming to my defense. “Least when a little ole bug of some kind lands on her, she don’t scream like she’s been kilt. She’s right handy goin’ fishin’, even puts the worms on the hooks.” I beamed at him.
Clyde, choosing to side with his friends, gave Ida a push. “Go home, Ida. You ain’t wanted here.”
Ida crossed her arms, and yelled at the top of her voice, “I WILL NOT!”
Clyde drew his hand back and slapped her across the face. It wasn’t an especially hard slap, but Eric and I never struck one another, and I gasped, horrified. Ida sat down in the grass and began to cry. Henry groaned impatiently.
“All you boys are mean as snakes,” I said, using one of Granny Muriel’s favorite euphemisms. “Come on, Ida. I’ll take you home.” I offered her my hand.
She took it, and we set off in the direction we’d come. When we reached the great house, we were given a tongue lashing by her nanny, a young black woman named Mabel. She scolded us for running off with the boys and ruining our hair and clothes, but in time we were forgiven and sent upstairs to play with her daughter Tansy, a beautiful child with caramel skin and a cloud of dark, curly hair.
At home, I had a rag doll Mama had sewn and several cornhusk dolls, but I was floored when I saw that Ida had at least two dozen, all with painted china faces and beautiful silk or calico dresses. They were so lovely I was afraid to touch them. Finally, I took one, cradling it in my arms. When Tansy made no move to touch any of the others, I offered mine to her, but Ida snatched it.
“That girl don’t get to touch my things,” she snapped. I gave Tansy an apologetic glance, and she glared at me in stony silence. Mama had always taught me to be kind to Negroes. “You live in a man’s world, Landra,” she would tell me, “where men rule. Women do as they’re bid, and for the colored folks, it’s even worse, even if they are supposed to be free. You must treat them with kindness.”
Sometime later, Mabel entered and presented us with cookies and milk then left again, taking Tansy with her. They were not the rich, earthy molasses cookies I was used to, but dainty ones made of white flour and sprinkled with sparkling grains of sugar. Ida consumed hers in a couple of bites, but I ate mine in small, careful nibbles, relishing every morsel.
I was enchanted by the beauty and extravagance of the Monday children and their upbringing from that day forward. Their mother’s absence, their father’s obsession with his work, and the way these things increased Clyde’s cruelty and Ida’s passionate nature; all of this I observed with private interest. Ida had an unending desire for pleasure and excitement, even as she was surrounded by plenty. It took me years to realize she was the loneliest person I had ever known, even lonelier than myself, forgotten as I was by my father, unloved by my stepmother.
Ida’s mother, Hannah, had been struck by a low-lying branch while riding her horse when Ida was barely out of diapers. She lay unconscious for two days, and when she came out of her stupor, was no longer herself. The injury gave her frequent headaches and terrible mood swings, for which her doctor prescribed a mixture of water, whiskey, and opium. By the time we were in our teens, the only thing Ida’s mother cared about was what she called her “dose.” Her glazed eyes and listless manner gave away her dependence, and she spent most of her days prostrated on the chaise lounge in her boudoir, with the shades drawn to keep the sunlight from hurting her eyes. That is, if she got out of bed at all.
Meanwhile, Ida went about her business, selecting dress patterns from Godey Lady’s book for her tailor, defying her governess, bossing Tansy, and tagging along after Clyde so she could flirt with his friends, which included Eric. By the age of twenty, she was utterly overlooked in her own house. Her mother was a shade, and her father amused himself with his horses and his whores to escape the sepulcher of their once lively house. Ida was left to her private amusements: fashion, finery, and beaux, all of which she had a plenty.
She was known throughout our county and the next for being fast, yet even more renowned than her appetite for love was her beauty. She held men in sway like a siren of the ancient Greek sea. Even I was entranced by her, and my entrancement outweighed my jealousy, although I disliked my snarling curls and peasant girl face, and envied her. Dimples did not dare to degrade the perfection of Ida’s physiognomy, nor did freckles.
Her skin was not the alabaster pale that was the fashion in our day. She tanned easily, burnished golden by the ruthless Florida sun in summer, but in winter her complexion lightened to a rich peaches and cream. She had a pert celestial nose, a sweet chin, and two lovingly placed beauty marks, one above her delicate mouth, and another beside her collarbone. Her hair fell past her waist in one long, even swathe. It gleamed glossy and smooth as honey in the sunlight, and her lovers, meagre poets all, likened it to rivers of molten gold, waterfalls of wheat, and rays of liquid sunshine. We laughed behind our hands at these strange metaphors; none of them could touch the striking reality.
She cut her teeth on my brother at barely fourteen; he was sweet on her, and she thought he was terribly handsome, a fact she reminded me of every chance she got. For his fifteenth birthday, she sent him a lock of her golden brown hair. He took it silently from my hand, red-faced, and put it into the pocket watch Daddy had given him. To this day, I sometimes see him take it out and observe it in times of reflection. They kissed for the first time not long after that, another milestone I grew weary of hearing repeated, and before much more time had passed they became lovers.
I heard this tale as I was reading David Copperfield in the window seat of Ida’s girlhood bedroom. She sat trimming a new bonnet her father had bought for her. Tansy was with us. She sat on the floor, arranging a pile of Ida’s colorful bead necklaces into various patterns. As Mabel’s daughter, Tansy was often our companion. During the week she went to school with other Negro children, but on Saturdays she stayed with Ida, supposedly being groomed to become her lady’s maid. None of us knew what this meant, but Ida took it as an opportunity to boss Tansy within an inch of her life.
Just as Mr. Micawber was beginning to wax eloquent about his money troubles, Ida exclaimed, “I have a secret and I’m just bursting with it!”
I continued to read as Tansy stirred the pool of beads on the floor.
Ida made a noise of petulant impatience until I closed the book, saving my place, and looked up. The soft, wave-like roar of the beads quieted as well.
“About whom?”
“Me!”
I waited.
She leaned forward slowly, no doubt to heighten the suspense, and whispered, “. . . and Eric.”
“What now?”
“Well, the other night we were in the cupola, kissing. . .”
“Ida, please. I don’t wish to hear.”
“But! Something else happened.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. “What happened, Ida dear? I’m trying to read.”
“You know. He and I, we were . . . together.”
“Yes?”
“Honestly, Landra, you’re so daft!”
The sound of Tansy tisking from her place on the floor startled me.
“You gone get yo’self in a mess of trouble, Miss Ida,” she intoned. “You best watch out.”
“Oh hush, and leave my things alone!”
Tansy removed her fingers from the pile of beads and was
silent. She shook her head, her brow furrowed between her green eyes. She had features of incongruent but enviable beauty; golden brown skin, full lips, and a small, pert nose. Her thick, inky hair, as coarse as boar bristles, was combed into a simple but becoming coif, with a small pompadour in front and a round bun behind. I envied how well it kept a style when my own wispy tendrils were forever coming loose of their pins, and, unwittingly, stretched a hand out to touch it. She slapped at my fingers, her eyes flashing.
“It’s so beautiful. If only my hair stayed in place so.”
She eyed my messy auburn waves with doubt. “Ain’t likely to, but eb’m so, my hair ain’t fo you to touch.”
I swallowed guiltily. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t apologize to her,” Ida interrupted, then, desperate for our attention she continued, “You don’t even know what I mean, do you? We had our first roll in the hay.” She giggled at the silly expression. “That’s what Clyde calls it.”
I had never encountered the expression myself, but I began to catch her meaning. “You mean to say you’re compromised?”
“Goodness, no! I’m only fourteen and no one knows but us. Besides, if anyone can keep a secret, it’s Eric. I’d trust him with my dying wish,” she sighed. “You needn’t roll your eyes so! He’s like a hero from a novel!”
“You’ve never read a novel! Besides, heroes in novels aren’t nearsighted, with boots that stink so bad they have to be left outside. Did you notice that last night?”
“Not at all! I was too busy being made passionate love to!”
I regarded her, terribly uncomfortable but curious. “What was it like?”
She bit her bottom lip, considering whether to be dramatic or honest, then said, “It didn’t take very long but . . .”
This poetic description was interrupted by a laugh from Tansy.
Ida glared at her, stung. “You shut up! It was the loveliest thing I--” suddenly her eyes were full of tears and she swiped at them. “I’m sorry. He made me feel safe, is all. I can’t explain it. Well, I can describe it.” She leaned over and began to whisper into my ear. I was horrified by her words, and tried to pull away.
“You doan listen to her,” said Tansy.
“I thought I told you to hold your tongue you, you uppity mixed breed!” Ida cried. Tansy pursed her mouth and said no more, but her eyes were like burning coals. Ida held onto my shoulder and continued to whisper into my ear, pleased at her ability to shock me. I couldn’t look my brother in the eye for days after that discussion.
Tansy accompanied me downstairs as I took my leave, and she said, “You know Ida, well, she cain’t help it. She ain’t been treated right by some of the menfolk her Daddy works with. But you don’t go doing like her, Miss Landra. You ain’t got her money to proteck you.”
I smiled at this effort to ensure my safety and squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to tell me,” I said.
In early April of 1890, Ida came to call on us. She never stayed long at the Pines. Our simple farmhouse with its bare, unpolished floors and whitewashed bead-board walls was plain and uninteresting to her. She would frown at our threadbare parlor furniture, or say of the tiny stove, simple pie safe, or nondescript buffet: “That’s a charming rustic piece. Does it still work?”
She took off her flower-laden straw hat and seated herself carefully in the swing on the front porch. I was seated in Colleen’s rocker, simultaneously shelling a basin of peas and entertaining Ezra.
“I’m having a spring ball and I’ve come to invite you,” she said, plucking a blossom from the cape jessamine and tucking it behind her ear.
“That’s kind of you, but I’m busy. Colleen’s in the family way again and everything is down to me.”
“She can spare you for an evening, Landra. Heavens.”
“I haven’t a stitch to wear.”
“Wear that old white thing you’re always in.”
“Don’t be cruel.”
“I’m only teasing, I’ll lend you something!”
I leaned forward and covered Ezra’s ears. “Then can you lend me a smaller bosom?” I whispered.
“And deny you the chance to catch a husband with that magnificent décolletage?” she laughed. “Never! I’ll give you something I bought off the rack in New York, it’s too large, and I can let it out. You can manage?”
“I’ll draw my laces within an inch of my life and wear a shawl. But first I must ask Colleen if I may go. She truly needs my help.”
“Tell her you’re twenty and the time for finding a husband is approaching!”
“You know that isn’t my prerogative. What about you?”
“I shall never marry. Gadding about is too much fun. I must run, darling.”
She kissed my cheek and fluttered her fingers at Ezra.
“Goodbye, cherub!”
Ezra waved a chubby hand at her. Ida was one of the few people he didn’t hide from, possibly because she always kept licorice in her clutch for him. Ida had no patience with children, but she knew they liked candy. She reached into her bag and took a twisted black rope from its wrapping of brown paper. She offered it to him and he clutched at it, his eyes round.
“You’ll rot his teeth,” I moaned.
“He’s rotten to the core already,” she returned. “Goodbye, dearest. I’ll see you at the ball?”
I nodded.
Colleen was never one to deny Lily and me the opportunity for a social gathering. Girls without money were not often invited to soirees, and she knew, as Ida had hinted, that at twenty, I was heading toward spinsterhood. So I went.
When I arrived that evening, I went up the grand staircase and showed myself into Ida’s bedroom. Letty Hamilton, whose father owned the stables and mercantile, was already there getting dressed. She was a dark brunette with large black eyes, soft cheeks, and full lips. She was plump as a mourning dove, and struggling to pull her elbow length gloves up over her fleshy arms.
Ida helped me out of my brown calico and began to draw my laces for her gown.
“You must draw them tighter,” I gasped. “How will I ever get my bosom into that thing otherwise? Tansy, will you do it?”
“You gonna faint,” said Tansy, but she pushed Ida aside and gave the laces a firm tug. I made a high-pitched sound of pain that would have been a shriek if there had been any air left in my lungs.
“If you do faint, make sure it’s into the arms of an eligible gentleman,” said Ida.
“I wish you were coming to the ball, Tansy,” I said. “You’re so much kinder than Ida.”
Ida scoffed, unaffected, and went to regard her reflection in the mirror at her dressing table. “Daddy would have a conniption,” she said, powdering her nose.
Letty tittered at this, preening herself in the mirror next to Ida. Tansy was silent as she tied the laces of my corset, and when next I saw her face it had taken on the cold bitterness that grew there when Ida was unkind to her. I regret that my empathy for her only extended so far. I was lost in my own dreams and wants, with little room for anyone else’s.
Letty’s dress was a rose-colored satin with cream lace draped elegantly along the skirt, and short sleeves edged with fringe. The low-cut neckline was trimmed with a darker shade of chiffon, and showed off her heavily powdered décolletage. She was pinning a white hothouse peony in the center, which gave the bodice an air of symmetry I admired.
“That’s a stunning gown,” I said.
“Why, thanks. It’s a Worth.”
Ida shook her head behind Letty’s back, making a face of comical disbelief. Ida was richer than anyone in the county. She herself owned a dress that had been ordered from the House of Worth in Paris, and she knew how unlikely it was that Letty should have one so fine.
“Well,” Letty paused, “it’s
not from the House of Worth, but I had my seamstress make it up just like one I saw in a magazine.”
“It’s lovely all the same,” I said.
She watched as Tansy buttoned me into the evening gown Ida had lent me. It was a robin’s egg blue silk, with elbow length sleeves trimmed in lace. I was relieved to find that the dress fit. Ida and I were the same height, but she was built like a child in comparison to me—I was petite, but curvaceous.
At my first ball, I similarly had owned nothing appropriate to wear, and she had allowed me to borrow a dress, but unlike the blue silk, it had not fit. In the year between my fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays, my small breasts, not more than a handful each, had grown to what Ida called “melons” and I’d been forced to start wearing stays and let out all of my frocks. Corseted and laced into Ida’s tiny ball gown, much of my bosom spilled out of the neckline. After several gentleman had ogled me by the punch bowl, I spent the entire evening hiding behind a large fern in mortification.
“Did you bring that?” Letty asked.
“Oh no, Ida is letting me borrow it. I’ve never owned anything so fine.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Ida threw Letty a sour look, and said, “Don’t be rude, Letitia, honestly, or I shall never invite you to another of our private parties. Tansy, do Miss Landra’s hair. She’s going to look divine.”
“There’s no need,” I interrupted. “I did my hair before I came.”
Tansy scoffed at this, dismissing the plain Gibson tuck, from which tendrils were already escaping, with a wave of her hand. She pushed me into the seat before Ida’s vanity. Tansy was a natural talent when it came to hair. Ida’s was always perfectly coiffed. I sat still as she curled mine with a hot iron and arranged it in a fashionable pompadour. Ida came to peer over my shoulder in the looking glass and as I saw all three of our faces juxtaposed together, it struck me, not for the first time, how like Ida and Tansy were. Except for the difference in their hair and skin, they bore a striking resemblance to one another; the same delicate, upturned nose, the shape of their lips, even their bone structure. I frowned, wondering how Ida could be unaware of something right under her nose.
