The Wrong Girl

by Donis Casey

  She would have called it a cabin, since it was made of peeled logs and stone with a shake shingle roof, but it was bigger than the house she and her nine siblings had grown up in. It consisted of two stories, with an outside staircase leading to a balcony that completely encircled the upper floor. She could see white lace curtains through the windows on either side of the front door. A circular gravel drive disappeared into the woods from the back of the house. The front of the house sported a long wooden porch, a hitching post, and batch of copper-colored chrysanthemums planted in a barrel beside the porch steps.

  She squatted down again and gazed at the homey place for some time, afraid, yet desperate for help. A month earlier she would have marched right up and knocked on the front door, sure that a young girl in difficulties would be welcomed and aided. She had always taken so many things for granted—such as the idea that most people were good. She had not had personal experience with evil and had not understood the depth to which mankind can sink. Until Graham. All she could think of at that moment was the story of Hansel and Gretel. What if a witch lived in that cabin and wanted to cook her and eat her?

  A shadow passed across one of the windows and Blanche straightened, her senses sharp. The figure reappeared and paused in front of the window. A Negro woman, slender and middle-aged. She busied herself with something below the sill for a moment, then moved out of sight again. It was enough.

  Blanche took a deep breath and stood. “Hello-o-o…” she called, her voice rising. She sounded to herself like a scared child, which was embarrassing. But her situation did not permit her to indulge in false dignity. “Hello,” she called again. “Is anybody to home? I could use some help, please.”

  There was no response and Blanche spent a moment considering whether to call again or fade into the woods before the woman decided to grab a rifle and take a shot at her. She was drawing a breath to call again when the front door opened and the woman appeared.

  She gave Blanche a good once-over before she said, “Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Come on in out of the wet.”

  Blanche didn’t give herself time to think about it. She squished across the soggy open ground between the woods and the cabin and stopped on the wooden porch. “Take off those muddy shoes first,” the woman said, and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the door open.

  Blanche looked down at her feet, surprised because she only had on one shoe. But her makeshift ex-stocking moccasin was so black with mud that it was hard to tell. She sat down on the porch to take off her remaining shoe and unwind the muddy cloth before stepping into the house in her bare feet.

  The ground floor was mostly one giant room, with a closed door at one end and an open door that led to a modern kitchen on the other. The walls were painted light green and the floor was wood, scattered about with rugs woven in patterns that Blanche recognized as Indian, though she didn’t recognize the tribe. The white curtains at the windows were lace. Pots of herbs and flowers sat on nearly every flat surface. The woman had created a sitting area on the back wall of the cabin by grouping two quilt-covered leather chairs beside an upholstered couch that sat before a large stone fireplace.

  She was pretty, this woman who was watching her quietly, small, thin, and delicate. It was hard to tell how old she was. Her face was unlined, but her hair, which had been braided and wound around her head, was graying.

  The woman waited for Blanche to have a good look around before she said, “Come into the kitchen,” and Blanche followed her. A Franklin stove under the front window served both as a cooktop and provided heat. One round knotty pine dining table dominated the center of the room. A second small window over a long sideboard looked out into the woods.

  The woman threw a tattered blanket over one of the chairs at the dining table and gestured toward it. “Sit down.”

  Blanche did as she was told. She sat slumped in the chair, her bedraggled locks hanging in damp hanks over the tabletop, as the woman busied herself at the stove.

  The woman returned in short order with a crockery bowl full of something that smelled like heaven. Of course, Blanche thought, after what she had been through, she would be happy to eat boiled leather.

  The woman said nothing as Blanche wolfed down the stew, which was meaty, full of vegetables and herbs, and even more delicious than it smelled. When Blanche had finally scraped the last morsels from the bowl and looked up, the woman was sitting across the table from her, chin in hand and a look of vague amusement on her face.

  Blanche felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. She had sucked up the stew like she had never seen food before. “Thank you,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.

  The woman dropped her hand onto the table. “You’re welcome. Looks like you haven’t eaten in a while.”

  Blanche blinked at her, taken aback by the woman’s cultured accent. Few people in eastern Oklahoma, black or white, sounded like that. “No, ma’am. Not since yesterday.”

  The woman waited for Blanche to say something else, but when nothing was forthcoming, she took the initiative. “What’s your story, hon? What are you doing way out here in the woods, standing in the rain like a forlorn dog?”

  What to say? Would the woman toss her out when she heard what kind of a person Blanche was? Yet Blanche owed her some sort of explanation.

  “A man was giving me a ride to Phoenix but he…made some suggestions that I didn’t like. I got scared and jumped out of the buggy and ran.”

  A weary look passed over the woman’s face and was gone. “That explains the condition of your feet, then. I’m Mrs. Gilbert. What’s your name, baby?”

  “Blanche Tucker.”

  “Well, now, Blanche Tucker, I think you had better get yourself out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia, or drip all over any more of these expensive rugs.” Mrs. Gilbert stood. “I think I could find clothes that would fit you. Come with me. We’ll look through the armoire upstairs and pick out something for you to wear, find some soft socks for those feet. I’ll rinse out the soggy clothes you have on, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you while they’re drying by the fire.”

  Blanche followed Mrs. Gilbert up the pine log staircase to a loft bedroom—a large, airy space, filled with light from a west-facing casement window situated across from a quilt-covered featherbed.

  Who was this woman, Blanche wondered? She knew many colored folks back in Oklahoma, interacted with them every day, liked and respected some and not others, just like white folks. But in Boynton, Oklahoma, in this year of Our Lord 1920, any colored person, no matter how liked and respected, no matter how well off, would be eyed with suspicion and resentment by her white neighbors if she dressed and spoke with Mrs. Gilbert’s elegance.

  “Do you work here, ma’am?” Blanche spoke to Mrs. Gilbert’s back as she rifled through the clothes in the tall pine armoire. Mrs. Gilbert gave her a narrow look and it occurred to Blanche that she had just insulted her rescuer. She corrected herself hastily. “Is this your house, ma’am?”

  “No, this little pied-à-terre belongs to my employer. She only uses it when she’s working in northern Arizona. She’s coming out tomorrow from California, so I came here early to open the cabin and set things in order.”

  Mrs. Gilbert was a lady’s maid. Blanche’s world fell back into its accustomed configuration. Mrs. Gilbert shot her an ironic glance over her shoulder, as though she had read Blanche’s mind. “I’m her personal assistant.”

  As Blanche drew a breath to ask about the identity of the intriguing businesswoman from California, Mrs. Gilbert held out a voluminous cotton shift. “Strip off that dress, honey. I’ll find you some underthings and you can slip into this for the time being.”

  * * *

  Blanche was sitting at the table, swallowed up by her roomy shift, drinking hot tea and finally beginning to feel warm for the first time in hours, when Mrs. Gilbert returned to the kitc
hen after hanging Blanche’s wet clothes to dry over a wooden chair before the fire.

  “What is your plan, now, honey?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I was going to California. I thought I was going to get married, but he abandoned me in Prescott. I’ve lost everything I own. I haven’t had time to decide what I’m going to do now.”

  “Where are you from, baby? Where are your people? I can take you back into Prescott so you can send a wire to your parents.”

  Blanche hesitated. “I can’t go home, ma’am. I ran away. I couldn’t face my mama and daddy after what I done.”

  She half expected to be instantly condemned, but Mrs. Gilbert put a sympathetic hand on her arm. “If you were my girl, I’d want you back no matter what you’ve done.”

  “I doubt if my parents really want to know what has befallen me. I don’t think I can ever go home. I know I can’t look them in the face. They have seven other daughters that they can be proud of. They won’t miss me.” Blanche knew perfectly well that her parents would take her back in a heartbeat. But no matter how her original plans had gone awry, she was free from restraints and expectations and intended to stay that way. She hoped that playing off of Mrs. Gilbert’s sympathy would gain her some time to reassess her situation. Her face crumpled and she took a long, dramatic moment to gain control of herself.

  Mrs. Gilbert looked skeptical, but she said, “You know your own people, I suppose. If you don’t want to go home, what are you going to do with yourself?”

  Blanche shook her head. “I don’t know, now. I need a job, I guess. Graham—he’s the man I ran away with—said he had connections in Hollywood. That I was different from anyone he knew. He wanted to marry me, he said, and get me in the moving pictures, but that ain’t going to happen now.”

  Mrs. Gilbert studied Blanche critically for what seemed like a long time. “The moving pictures, huh?”

  Blanche’s smile was more than a little bitter. “I was all het up to be a movie star. To marry a rich man.

  ~“I would have believed him if he had told me

  he could make me Queen of England.”~

  “Well, now, don’t give up on yourself so quick. Now that you’ve decided to reevaluate your goals, is there some occupation that appeals to you?”

  “At this point I expect I’ll take what I can get. I grew up on a farm and my mother made sure I can cook and clean with the best of them. I wouldn’t mind working my way out to California eventually, though. I hear it’s nice out there. I can’t go back to Oklahoma, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you know your way around a kitchen?”

  An ironic snort escaped Blanche. “I do indeed. If there’s anything my ma made sure of, it’s that all her girls know how to cook for one or for an army.”

  “If you’re willing to spend a couple of weeks peeling potatoes, I may have a temporary job for you. Can you stay here in Arizona for a little while?”

  Blanche felt a pang of worry. “I don’t know. I don’t want to run into the man with the carriage again.”

  “Don’t you worry, young lady. Even if that…man did find you, we’ll make sure he can’t hurt you.” Mrs. Gilbert hesitated, considering how much she wanted to say to this odd, damp girl who had shown up on her doorstep. Blanche sat quietly and allowed herself to be judged. If she didn’t cut the mustard, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  Mrs. Gilbert came to a conclusion and sat back in her chair. “I manage affairs for my employer. She’s coming out to Prescott for a short-term job with a company that employs a lot of people, all of whom will need to be fed three meals a day. The cook is looking for help in the kitchen. Well, I say ‘kitchen,’ but it’s really more like a mess tent. Our location is pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. But you’re welcome to stay here with me and my employer until the job is finished. I’m not making any promises, but if you’re a hard worker and do well, we might invite you to travel with us back to Los Angeles.”

  Blanche knew she should ask more questions. Who was this “employer” that Mrs. Gilbert was going to such lengths not to name? And what was this mysterious job that was bringing the lady from Los Angeles to the wilds of high desert Arizona? At home, Blanche had hated cotton harvest time, when her mother and aunts had put all the females in the family to work, either cooking for or serving bushels of food to the gangs of itinerant workers. But her situation was desperate and the offer of unglamorous but honest work on the very day she was abandoned in the wilderness was too perfectly timed to refuse. Besides, how could she pass up the possibility of reaching her destination safely while under the protection of someone who did not mean to pimp her out at the nearest mining camp?

  “Miz Gilbert,” she said, “I’ve already peeled enough potatoes to feed the entire state of Arizona. I reckon I’m an expert at it. I’d be obliged for the opportunity. Anything to make some money, as long as it’s honest.”

  Mrs. Gilbert’s gave a satisfied nod. “Good. I think you won’t be peeling potatoes long. Miss Bolding is soft on lost puppies and mistreated little girls.”

  “Miss Bolding?” Blanche said. Blanche only knew of one person named Bolding—Alma Bolding, star of the silver screen. But Alma Bolding lived in Hollywood in a lavish mansion, not in a cabin in the woods in Arizona.

  “Yes, darling, Alma Bolding, the moving picture actress…” Mrs. Gilbert hesitated at the expression of gobsmacked awe on Blanche’s face. “…and tomorrow we are going to go out to the location of her next picture to ready the tent where she will put on her costumes and makeup and rest between takes. I will talk to the head cook and ask if he will hire you to assist him in the kitchen. Now, Miss Bolding arrives on the train tomorrow afternoon, and while you are working, I will go to meet her in Prescott and bring her to the set. I will introduce you after you finish work. Miss Bolding is, let us say, larger than life, but don’t make a fool of yourself when you meet her. She enjoys meeting her fans, but she hasn’t much patience with children.”

  Blanche was so astounded that her prospective benefactor was actually screen star Alma Bolding that she forgot to be insulted that Mrs. Gilbert had just caller her a child. “I love Miss Bolding,” she breathed, struggling to retain her composure. “When she played the doomed Russian empress in Palace of Intrigue with Mary Pickford as her daughter, I nearly cried my eyes out!”

  Her young companion’s starstruck manner amused Mrs. Gilbert. “I’m sure Miss Bolding will be glad to hear that. But now we have business to attend to.”

  “But why is Miss Bolding shooting a picture in Arizona? I thought she made her pictures in California.”

  “She does, most of them. This is a Western that she’s starring in with her friend Tom Mix, and he likes to shoot out here for the authentic scenery. He used to have a ranch in Prescott, you know, and he still comes out here a lot.”

  Blanche had thought she couldn’t be more over the moon when she found out she was going to meet Alma Bolding, but Tom Mix was just the berries. The great hero of the Westerns was one of the highest-earning movie actors in the world and, on top of everything, he was from Oklahoma.

  ~The Slaughterhouse Gulch Gang~

  Mrs. Gilbert showed Blanche to a closet-like bedroom on the second floor with a high, soft bed that felt like a cloud. Blanche felt like she had just closed her eyes minutes before when Mrs. Gilbert woke her early the next day and loaded her down with bags and baskets of supplies to take to the movie set, which was at a place delightfully called Slaughterhouse Gulch, north of Prescott. Blanche’s curiosity about how they were going to get there was satisfied when Mrs. Gilbert led her to a small garage located behind the house, where a sturdy Ford Model T sedan was parked. The ever-efficient Mrs. Gilbert packed her supplies neatly in the back and deposited Blanche in the passenger seat after giving the engine a decisive crank. It wasn’t far down the narrow mountain road from the cabin to an open field in a gulch with a narrow
, fast-running creek cutting through it. Several tents were already set up, and one bare wooden trailer had been hauled in that Blanche would have taken for a gypsy caravan if it had been in the least colorful.

  Mrs. Gilbert took her around the set and introduced her to the crew before showing her the small tent on a wooden platform that was to be Miss Bolding’s dressing room. The tent was as well-appointed as a hotel room, Blanche thought, with a white bedstead covered with a red quilt, a costume trunk, an armoire and a dressing table, a washstand with fluffy towels, a couple of chairs, and a small oil heater to stave off the mountain chill.

  “When Mr. Mills is finished with you for the day, you can come back here and help me with Miss Bolding, all right?”

  All right? Blanche would peel a stack of potatoes as high as a mountain if she could wait on Miss Alma Bolding afterwards. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  “Then come with me.” Mrs. Gilbert led her to the largest tent, a long, open-sided canvas affair that had been fitted out with a camp stove, prep tables, and banks of long dining tables and benches, where the cast and crew would take their meals.

  She met the cook, a very fat man with a bad attitude by the name of Mr. Mills. Blanche figured that his girth and his ill nature indicated that he loved food more than he loved people. He and one put-upon helper were busy unloading staples from the back of a truck—flour, sugar, cans of lard, bushels of potatoes, beans, flats of eggs, bags of various durable vegetables like squashes and carrots. Mr. Mills was not pleased to be interrupted, but he didn’t argue with Mrs. Gilbert when she presented Blanche as a willing hand in the kitchen. He barked at the girl to start arranging the plates and utensils in the tall pie cabinet sitting at the back of the tent. Mrs. Gilbert made shooing motions at her, and Blanche set to work, still atingle with anticipation at the thought of meeting real live motion picture stars.