The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Thursday, June the twenty-second, 1911

  How hard it is to write with refinement, when my life is so sordid and melancholy! But today there was a glimmer of light, a rare flash and gleam: the presence of Hope. It was not that the black clouds parted, revealing a sky of celestial blue — no, the stage of my life is shrouded by curtains of Stygian darkness. But lo! For a brief moment, a crooked thread of lightning defied the gloom.

  It happened like this. I was shelling peas, and I set the newspaper pages from Miss Chandler’s bouquet on the kitchen table so I could read while I was working. We don’t often see a newspaper at Steeple Farm. Father says they’re a waste of money. I can’t say I mind much, because what’s going on in the world is confusing and often dismal. But I sat down to read, and the first article I came upon was about the Amalgamated Railroad Employees striking in sympathy with some locomotive workers.

  At first my eye just passed over the words, because I don’t know what Amalgamated means and I have no way to look it up. I don’t even know if it’s the employees that are amalgamated, or the railroad. When you see a big word like that, it’s like finding a cherry pit in your piece of pie — you want to spit it out and get on with what you know. Though that is not an elegant metaphor, and I’m ashamed of it. The metaphor about the lightning and the Stygian darkness is much finer.

  But the newspaper article started me thinking about strikes. Father says that any man who goes on strike is lazy and not fit to call himself a man. But Miss Chandler — at least sometimes — is in sympathy with the strikers. She especially pities the coal miners, who are so often killed below the ground, and she thinks it’s dreadful when their wives are left widows, and their little children have to go down the mines. She doesn’t believe it’s right to strike, but she prays for the strikers, and she says the mine owners are in the wrong. I wonder if she would pray for the Amalgamated Railroad Employees. Railroad work is dangerous, and it occurs to me that maybe the strikers aren’t lazy but only desperate to change their lives, as I am.

  I started to think of what would happen if I went on strike. It seems to me the household would fall to pieces. If I just sat and folded my hands, the fire in the stove would go out and we’d have no hot water. There’d be no meals cooked, and no butter churned, and no clean clothes. Nothing would get mended or tidied. The privy would be filthy, and the garden would go to seed, and the birds would get the cherries and the blueberries and — well, I’d have to feed the chickens and give them fresh water, but I wouldn’t gather the eggs. Everything would be as nasty and untidy and inconvenient as it could be.

  I thought about going on strike until Father promised me a better life. That’s when the lightning flashed against the Stygian darkness. Father needs my work here; he said so to Miss Chandler.

  But then I thought what Father would do if I refused to work.

  And I knew I would never dare. It came to me with heavy shame that I’m a coward where Father is concerned. Even the thought of defying him scares me. I think of his face, dark as thunder, and the rough contempt in his voice, and my stomach feels small and shriveled, like a grape turning into a raisin. I don’t know what Father might not do. He might do something worse than anything he’s ever done.

  I turned over the pages of the newspaper. My heart was palpitating and I’d forgotten about the peas. I hoped there might be some pictures of dresses on the other pages, because I needed something to calm me down. But the other pages were advertisements. There was Situations Wanted and then there was Help Wanted Female. I read those, and they didn’t calm me at all, because some of the jobs in the newspaper, I didn’t even know what they were. I read “Experienced TIPPERS wanted,” and I didn’t know what that was. And —“YOUNG LADY of Ability for STENOGRAPHIC POSITION.” I’m not sure what stenographic is, but the ability of the young lady must be perfectly staggering, because that job pays fifteen dollars a week. Then there was “GIRL for GENERAL OFFICE WORK to use REMINGTON MACHINE”— I think that must be one of those typewriting machines Miss Chandler told me about — and “GIRL to run FOLDING BOX GLUING MACHINE.” I suppose there must be a machine somewhere that folds cardboard boxes and glues them at the same time. I can’t imagine who was clever enough to invent such a thing.

  But then there were advertisements that I understood quite well — advertisements for hired girls. “White girl to cook and help with housework, no washing or ironing, $6 a week.” Six dollars a week! I thought maybe that was a mistake, but there was another one: “First-class white girl for COOKING AND HOUSEWORK, wages $6.” I laid the paper down and went back to shelling peas, but though my hands were busy, my mind was in a daze. Six dollars a week! With no washing or ironing, either!

  I wish I was a hired girl. Of course, I’d rather be a schoolteacher. But I bet those hired girls — foreigners, most of them — don’t work a lick harder than I do, and they get paid six dollars a week. And here I am, without a penny to call my own.

  Then the idea of a strike beckoned again. I imagined myself telling Father that I wouldn’t work unless he gave me six dollars a week. I almost laughed aloud, because Father would cut his throat before he separated himself from six dollars a week. Even two dollars a week, he’d cut his throat — or mine. I imagined myself saying, “I won’t lift a finger unless you let me have Miss Chandler as my friend and give me a dollar a week”— and then an idea flashed into my head.

  I thought about Ma’s egg money. Ma always had the egg money for her own. Raising chickens is women’s work, and it’s the lady of the house that gets the egg money — the butter money, too, often as not, but I wouldn’t dare ask for that. I tried to picture myself asking Father for the egg money. The last time I asked him, I was only ten or eleven, a little girl, really. But now I’m almost a woman. And if I went on strike — maybe not a whole strike, but a small strike — he might be persuaded to let me have the egg money.

  It’s not as if I’d be asking for six dollars a week. Eggs are cheap in the summer, eight or nine cents a dozen. And I wouldn’t be asking him to take a whole new idea into his head. It’s traditional, the woman pocketing the egg money.

  If I had a little money, the first thing I’d do would be improve the stock. Of course I’d rather have books, right off the bat, and a new dress, but I’d start with the stock. We have Leghorns now, and they’re spindly, ill-bred things, and there’s no meat on their bones. They’re not bad layers, but they’re scarcely worth the trouble of cleaning and plucking. When Ma was alive, we had Buff Orpingtons and Spotted Sussex. The Buff Orpingtons were big, handsome birds, friendly and good to eat. And the spotties were like pets: they used to make me laugh with their antics. Leghorns are the most boring chickens on earth. So if I had a little money, I’d buy bigger, better-looking chickens, and I’d work up to a flock I could be proud of.

  I saw myself with that flock of chickens — Buff Orpingtons and Spotted Sussex and maybe a Rhode Island Red or two — and I imagined the egg money bringing in new books and a new dress, rose colored with white stripes. I even started to think about going back to school, but there my imagination balked, because Father’s set his mind against that so hard he’ll never relent. Even if I were to strike, he wouldn’t agree to that, because he’d lose too many hours of work from me. It would be a bad bargain.

  But if I did strike — if I dared — I might be able to get him to give me the egg money. And maybe I could get permission to be friends with Miss Chandler. I wouldn’t ask her to the house, because Father frightened her. But perhaps I could visit her. If I had her to guide me, and I could borrow books, I could better myself.

  I’d save money, just as Ma did. I’d add to that stash of bills inside Belinda’s apron. The time might come when I could take that money and use it to change my life. If I had books, if I could scrape together an education, I’d have a future, whether any man ever asked me to marry him or not.

  But I’d have to strike first.

  I think about going on strike, and how to go about it, and wha
t Father will say. And there is hope, but I am cold with fear.

  Sunday, June the twenty-fifth, 1911

  Last night, the heat broke. I felt the change before dawn. I woke because my skin felt cool, and I wanted the sheet to cover me. It was a blessing. This morning, the sky was a clear, strong blue, and the air was fresh. Even Father allowed as he was glad of the change in the weather, though of course he went on to grumble about how we need rain. I believe Father thinks that if he ever approved of the weather, God would take a mean advantage of him and make it worse.

  But the men went out to work in good spirits, and I took heart, because of the breeze coming in the window, and the billow and sway of the curtains. It occurred to me that the idea of the strike might be too brazen — at least, to start with. I thought it might be better to reason with Father and ask him politely for the egg money. I don’t think this was cowardice but only good sense. It seemed, on so fair a morning, that it wouldn’t hurt to ask nicely. I told myself that if he said no, I could go on strike later.

  It struck me, too, that there would be no harm in trying to put Father in a good humor. So I decided to make a chicken pie for Sunday dinner. I don’t know that Father’s ever gone so far as to come out and say he likes chicken pie, but he scrapes the plate whenever I make one. And two of the old hens haven’t been laying. I hate wringing their necks, and the business of plucking their feathers is irksome. But I killed them and dressed them and into the pot they went. I steamed them and strained the broth and burned my fingers taking the meat off the bones. Then I stirred up a milk sauce, and rolled out the pastry, and added a little salt pork for flavor, because heaven knows those chickens need all the help they can get.

  I fairly flew around the kitchen. I shelled peas and added bacon, because Father likes peas with bacon. I made light biscuits — Father prefers bread, but we have rye bread fresh from yesterday, and the boys and I like biscuits. I sliced the bread and put out butter and honey and cherry preserves and pickles. The whole time I was working, I was planning what I’d say to Father when I asked for the egg money. By the time the dinner was cooked, I’d lost my appetite, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine Father saying yes to me. Every time he said no — in my imagination, that is — he said it more cruelly. I was afraid that when the time came to ask, I wouldn’t dare.

  But I did dare. By the time the men came in, the kitchen smelled like heaven. The crust on the pie couldn’t have been bettered. It was golden and flaky and tempting looking, and there were one or two places where the gravy oozed through and made rich-looking puddles on the crust. I saw the boys’ faces when they looked at it. Father didn’t say anything but sat right down to eat. He didn’t even take off his hat until he’d had a helping of pie.

  I let them eat. As I said, I didn’t have much appetite, but I tasted the pie and worried down a biscuit with cherry preserves. It was a good dinner, and the men were silent as they ate. I didn’t speak. I was busy rehearsing what I was going to say. I knew it wouldn’t be wise to be too brash.

  But I wasn’t going to be meeching, either. And I was going to ask today; I wasn’t going to put it off. I waited until almost all the food was gone. Then I sat up straight and used my most ladylike voice. I began, “Father —”

  At first he didn’t look up. He was buttering the last slice of bread. Father always folds his bread in thirds and crushes it in his fist. Then he eats it like a stalk of celery, in great bites. I think I’d die if Miss Chandler ever saw the way he eats. When he took the second bite, he fixed his eyes on mine, and I felt a thrill pass through me, because it was now or never.

  And all at once I wasn’t scared anymore. No, that’s not true; I was scared, but I wasn’t scared in the same way. Instead of being scared stiff, I was scared the way I used to feel when I was going downhill on a toboggan, too fast. It was a jittery, active, mettlesome kind of scared.

  “Father,” I said calmly, “the other day, you said I wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. I’ve been thinking on that, and I think you’re right. And you said I was needed to do the women’s work, and I’m thinking that’s pretty near to calling me a woman.” It didn’t sound as forceful as I’d hoped, but I was on that toboggan and I kept going. “So, since my work is needed, and I take care of the chickens, I think I ought to have the egg money. That’s what Ma had.”

  There was silence after I spoke. Father took another mouthful of bread. He looked as if his whole mind was taken up with chewing, but I knew that wasn’t so. It came to me — I’d never thought of this before — that Father isn’t quick. He knew he wanted to deny me, but he lacked the words. So he chewed slowly, with his eyes gazing straight ahead as if I wasn’t there.

  I became aware that the boys were staring. Well, not Matthew, because he was dragging his fourth biscuit in circles around the pie dish, dredging up the gravy. But Mark had stopped chewing and stared at me, bemused. Luke leaned forward with his forearms on the table. I don’t rightly know how to describe the look on Luke’s face. His eyes were alert, as if he was working a sum in mental arithmetic. At the same time, I almost felt as if he admired me.

  That’s when I recalled that Luke and Mark never have any money, either. They’re as penniless as I am. Father keeps the money in a big stone jar on top of the kitchen dresser. He and Matthew can dip into it whenever they like. But Mark and Luke have to ask permission to take money from the jar, and if Father says yes, they have to write on a piece of paper what they want, and how much it costs, and then they have to put the paper in the jar. If they ask too often, Father takes the slips out and shames them by reading aloud all the things they’ve wanted in the past.

  It’s different with Matthew. Matthew has to write down what he takes, but he doesn’t have to ask Father’s permission to open the jar. Matthew’s as tightfisted as Father is. He hates spending money. He’s always after me to mend his things, and I can’t seem to make him understand that there comes a point where the cloth is so worn out it won’t hold another patch or darn. Of course, Matthew’s twenty-one, so Father has to consider him a man. But Mark is only nineteen and Luke is sixteen and neither of them ever have a cent.

  “The egg money,” Father said, after a long time of chewing. “What for?”

  I didn’t know whether he meant What do you want the money for? Or: For what reason should I give you that money? I didn’t want to tell Father what I might do with the money. So I answered the second question. “For doing my share of the work,” I said.

  “Work!” said Father. “What do you know about work? The rest of us”— he jerked his head at my brothers —“spend our days in the hot sun, or out in the cold, while you sit in the house and keep your hands nice. What do you know about work?”

  It was so unjust I couldn’t stand it. I threw my hands down on the table with such force that the plates rattled. I wanted him to see them, so raw and rough from scrubbing. I had it in my mind to recite to him all the work I do, which is unceasing — the carrying of water and ashes and coal, the scrubbing, the laundry, the cooking and mending and putting food by — but instead I said the wrong thing, and what was worse, I said it the wrong way. “My hands ain’t nice!” I protested.

  The minute the words were out of my mouth, I felt my face burn. I’d said ain’t like any ignorant farm girl. I haven’t said ain’t for years. Miss Lang broke me of saying ain’t when I was seven years old. When I heard myself say it, the shame took all the starch out of me. I could have cried.

  That’s when Mark spoke up. “I guess Joan does her share of the work,” he said. He said it mildly, without looking at Father — he said it as if he were talking to himself. But he said it.

  Luke nodded. “Joan’s right,” he said, and I almost fainted, because I was fool enough to think he was taking up for me. “We’re none of us children anymore. All three of us — Matt and Mark and me — do a man’s work; you said so yourself. We ought to get something like a man’s wages.”

  Well, that’s Luke for you. He wasn’t takin
g up for me; he was feathering his own nest. I wasn’t surprised, not really.

  “A man’s wages,” said Father. Once again, he was repeating what had just been said, and again I thought, He’s not quick. But now he was angry. I could see it in the set of his shoulders. He didn’t like me asking for the egg money, but Luke asking for wages was worse.

  I kept my eye on him. All of us watched Father, waiting to see which way he’d jump. As it happened, he lashed out at Luke — and I was glad it wasn’t me.

  “A man’s wages,” he said, and pitched forward so that he was face-to-face with Luke — face-to-face, and too close. I didn’t blame Luke for shrinking back. “You think you do a man’s work? You think I’d hire you, if I had my druthers? Lazy and feckless as you are? If you weren’t my son, I wouldn’t let you set foot on my land. I wouldn’t give you a boy’s wages, much less a man’s. You can count yourself lucky I don’t give you something else — something fit for the boy you are.”

  Father got up fast, and his chair scraped the floor. I thought he might strike Luke — I thought he might overturn the table; he did once, when Ma was alive. I don’t recollect why, but I remember cleaning up the spilled food and broken crockery. But he only stood there with his fists clenched, glaring at Luke.

  I stole a glance at my unfavorite brother, and felt his humiliation. Luke’s skin is like mine, prone to burn and freckle and blush, and he was as red as a piece of calf ’s liver. Just at that moment, my heart ached for him.

  But I didn’t stir. We all sat still, waiting to see what Father would do next. He turned his eyes on Matthew and Mark. “You’re not as useless as he is,” he said, ”but I’ve no notion of paying you. Haven’t I fed and clothed you for twenty years? Ain’t I entitled to a little work in exchange — and a little respect?” He bellowed the last word so that I started. He swung round on me.