The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “You’d better jump,” he snarled. “You’d better jump, and you’d better cower, if you’re going to come pestering me for that egg money. Your ma had the egg money, that’s right. I let her have the egg money. But I didn’t feed and clothe your ma for fourteen years. I didn’t have to eat her burned food, before she learned how to cook a decent meal, and I didn’t have to put up with airs and graces and sass. Your ma was twenty-six years old when she married me, and she knew better than to sass me.” He gave a short laugh; suddenly he was enjoying himself. “When you’re twenty-six, you can ask me for the egg money. I don’t promise to give it to you, because you ain’t worth it now, and likely you won’t be worth it then. But you can ask.”

  He picked up his hat from the table and set it on his head. He’d won, and he knew it. He swung the door wide when he went outdoors, so that it flew back and slammed.

  The boys got up and followed him. Not right away, and not all together, but they slid back their chairs and went after him. They knew they had to work with him all afternoon, and they didn’t want to make things worse by lagging behind.

  I thought they were like a flock of sheep. They didn’t like him any more than I did — I know Luke hated him, at that moment — but where Father led, they followed. Not one of them glanced at me as they passed by. Not even Mark.

  I sat at the table with the empty plates. Then I got up and put the kettle to boil, so I could wash the dishes.

  I read these words, and I think of how hopeful I was when the day began — and how lacking in hope I am now. It seems to me I have two choices: to accept the way things are, or to strike.

  I don’t know where on earth I’ll find the courage.

  But I have to do something. It’s like that passage in Jane Eyre: Speak I must; I had been trodden on severely and must turn: but how? Somehow I must find the courage to do more than speak — I must defy Father: I must act.

  Tuesday, June the twenty-seventh, 1911

  I have begun my strike! I write this in the apple orchard — Father can’t see me from the window. It’s evening, and the air is beginning to cool. The western sky is resplendent, painted with brushstrokes of harmonious color. And I am triumphant: I have begun, I have begun! I am a little frightened, but so far, it’s gone well. Oh, I scarcely dare hope —!

  All day yesterday I thought long and hard about my strike, and I think Miss Chandler would say that I’ve shown great maturity and good judgment. When I thought about my work, I realized something: even if I weren’t a coward about Father (and I’m not as cowardly as I thought I was!), I wouldn’t choose to go on the sort of strike where I do nothing at all. For example, the raspberries: they’re ripe now, and if I were on a full strike, I’d let them go to waste. But I know that next winter I’ll be craving raspberry jam, the tartness and sweetness and that ruby-red color. And so will the boys — Mark loves raspberry jam. It’s his favorite.

  So I thought it would be a mistake not to make the jam. And it would be an even bigger mistake to let the house go to rack and ruin. It would be cutting off my nose to spite my face, because after the strike, I’m the one who’ll have to put things to rights.

  As for the garden — well, you have to keep after a garden this time of year. If you turn your back, the weeds will take it. And the chickens need me to feed them, and so do the men. When all is said and done, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone starving to death.

  So there I was, wondering how I might strike, and at the back of my mind was the idea that I’d better make that jam soon, before the raspberries go. I found myself feeling aggravated, because Tuesday is ironing day, and it’s hard enough making jam without having to heat the irons on top of the stove. Then it came to me that ironing isn’t necessary. No one will suffer if I stop ironing. That’s when I realized that ironing could be the first thing on my strike. I’m not going to iron — except my own things.

  If the men’s clothes are stiff and wrinkled, I don’t care.

  The idea of not ironing seemed to open up a whole new world to me. I made up my mind that the men can make their own beds. They’re the untidiest sleepers on earth, I think. Luke drags the sheets off the bed and throws them on the floor, and Matthew and Mark — why, they just aren’t clean in their habits. I hate messing with the boys’ beds, because there’s a smell; I don’t know what it is, but I know my sheets never smell like that. Ma always said that men are dirty creatures, and though it’s not a nice thing to say (and not refined), anyone who launders those sheets would say the same. Well, then: that was another thing I could not do on my strike. If Father wants to lie in a smooth, tidy bed, he can just hand over the egg money.

  And third of all — but this is the most dangerous one, because it’s striking a blow against Father — I’m not going to serve a hot dinner every blessed day. The boys won’t mind — they’d just as soon eat sandwiches in this hot weather. But Father will mind. Father insists on a hot meal. That part of the strike feels risky — but I told myself it’s got to be risky, because, after all, it’s a strike.

  I got up and made breakfast, same as always. After the men went out to work, I didn’t have four beds to make — I had only one. I didn’t tidy the men’s rooms, and I left their dirty clothes on the floor. The only thing I did was pull the shades down, to keep the rooms cool. Then I went out to pick raspberries.

  It was a fair, cool morning, and I filled two pails with raspberries. I felt so free and naughty, knowing I didn’t have to iron, even though it was Tuesday. In the middle of picking the fruit off the canes, I got down on my knees and prayed to the Blessed Mother that Father wouldn’t be too terrible.

  Then I went inside to pick over the berries. Midmorning I prepared dinner for the men. I made a big platter of sandwiches, took out four bottles of beer, and added a plate of molasses cookies. Just as I had for Miss Chandler, I piled everything on a tray, put the tray on the kitchen stool, and set it out under the elm tree. I tucked a towel over the tray to keep the flies off.

  Back in the kitchen, I put on my thickest apron. I think praying to the Blessed Mother did me good, because I’d begun to feel steady inside. When you make jam, you have to keep your mind clear, doing everything in just the right order and just the right way. If you’re flighty or muddleheaded, you’ll burn yourself and spoil the jam.

  I set to work. It’s hot work, scalding the jars and melting the wax and standing over the stove. It’s sticky, too, and I perspired until my hair was damp. But the smell of the raspberries — I don’t know how to describe it. It seems like a hundred smells at once — hot sugar and fresh peaches and grapes ripening in the sun — but it’s also just one smell: raspberry, raspberry, raspberry. Smelling that smell and watching the red bubbles churn and froth brought me something like happiness.

  By dinnertime, I was in the very crisis of jam making. Matthew was the first to come in. I told him his dinner was outside on a tray, under the elm tree.

  He looked confused. I waited for him to ask me why I didn’t have a hot dinner on the table, but Matthew never does ask questions. He looked at the kettle, which was boiling and foaming, and went out without speaking. A few minutes later, Father came to the door. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the table, which was covered with clean towels and jam jars set upside down. He said, “What’s all this?” My heart beat double time.

  “I’m making jam,” I said briskly, and skimmed raspberry froth off the top. “Your dinner’s on the kitchen stool under the elm tree. There’s beer and sandwiches and cookies.” And then — I don’t know how I found the courage — I went on. “I don’t see my way to making a hot dinner every day in this heat. I’m on strike.”

  I couldn’t see Father’s face very well. He stood with the light behind him, and I could see that Mark and Luke were with him. There was a brief pause before Father took the Lord’s name in vain. Then he said the thing he’s always saying, about how a working man has a right to a hot meal. And then he demanded to know what in heaven’s name — only it was
n’t heaven he said — I meant by being on strike.

  “I don’t have any money,” I said over my shoulder. The jam was bubbling up high, so I wrapped towels around my hands and took the kettle off the heat for a minute. “I’m bound and determined to do what has to be done in this house, but I want a little money. So I won’t be doing anything that doesn’t have to be done. I’m not going to iron. I’ve made up my mind about that. And until I get a little money, you and the boys’ll have to make your own beds. And I don’t see why dinner has to be hot, not when it’s ninety in the shade, and I have to make jam.” I set the jam kettle on the table and fetched a saucer. I spooned a little jam onto the saucer and lifted the saucer to see if the jam would run or stay put.

  It was still runny, so I put the kettle back on the stove. I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred.

  Father took the name of the Lord in vain again. This time he added a middle initial, which was H. I’ve always wondered if the H stood for Holy. I braced myself, because I didn’t know what he might do next — he might shake me, or even slap me.

  But he didn’t. For one thing, Mark had hold of his arm. And for another — but it was only later that I remembered this — Father’s wary of being in the kitchen when I’m putting food by. I remember the first year I canned tomatoes, the jars exploded, one after another, and Father almost lost an eye. The funny thing is, the jars never explode when I make jam — I don’t know why. It’s the tomatoes that are temperamental.

  But Father doesn’t know that. He gave an unpleasant grunt and turned away. I was busy with the jam, but I knew at once when he went out, and I felt a great rush of relief. When I peeked out the window a little later, Father was sitting under the elm tree with a ham sandwich in his fist. The way he was eating, I could tell I hadn’t spoiled his appetite.

  I felt limp — and astonished — and triumphant. Oh, I hadn’t gotten the egg money yet — but I’d stood up to Father, and he hadn’t come after me. I felt so baffled-happy, I could scarcely keep my mind on the jam. All at once, the smell of it seemed as intoxicating as wine — some rare, racy, aromatic wine, like French champagne, though I’ve never tasted that. I’ve only heard about it. But I was drunk with relief and triumph and the smell of raspberries, and I reckon that’s as good as champagne any day.

  I was proud of myself, and the jam turned out beautifully.

  I had time to iron my things and wash up before supper. I made an especially good supper — no point in riling up Father twice in one day — pork chops with gravy, and boiled greens and hominy cakes, and dried-apple dumplings with cream. I was especially cheerful as I served it, and I said no more about the strike. Father didn’t speak to me. I think he doesn’t know what to do, so he’s pretending I’m not on strike at all.

  After I finished the dishes, I said, “It’s such a lovely night. I think I’ll take the mending outdoors.” And I took up my workbasket, but I’d hidden a pencil and this book inside. And I haven’t been sewing, but writing. So there!

  Later that evening

  I think I will never stop crying.

  Father has burned my books.

  Wednesday, June the twenty-eighth, 1911

  I’ve locked myself in my room. The door has no lock, but I’ve wedged a straight chair under the knob. I don’t even know why I did it — the men are outside harrowing — except that I need to be in a room where Father can’t come.

  I’ve been crying all day. Sometimes I stop for a little. Then I think about what happened last night, and I start up again. It feels like I’ve rubbed off my eyelashes, I’ve cried so hard. My face hurts, and my mouth is as dry as cornstarch. I’m queasy and thirsty and wretched.

  I wish Ma were here. If Ma were here she’d put her arms around me, and — there! — I’ve started crying again, wailing like a baby because I want Ma so. I’m sure Jane Eyre and Rebecca wouldn’t be so childish — but no, that’s worse. I think about my friends, my burned friends, and that makes me cry even harder. I must stop. I will stop.

  I’m beginning to be hungry. I suppose I could creep downstairs and bring a little bread up to my room. I fixed breakfast this morning, same as always, but as soon as the men came down, I came back upstairs. Seems like I couldn’t face any of them. I’d hoped — how stupid I was! — that one of the boys might say something kind, but of course they didn’t. They don’t like me. It took Father to teach me that. I’ve known for some time that Father doesn’t love me, but I didn’t know about the boys.

  My heart is broken.

  I look ahead and I don’t know how I can bear the life that’s laid out for me. Years and years of it: washing and ironing and scrubbing out the privy, cooking and scouring and feeding and mending, everything the same, day after day, season after season, working myself to death, as Ma did. Only Ma wasn’t strong. It’ll be years before the work kills me. I see all those years ahead of me, and a dreadful bleakness comes over me and I want to die.

  Except that I don’t. Even if I could go straight to heaven, like the holy saints, and didn’t have to bother with Purgatory, I don’t want to die. Miserable though I am, I feel the blood alive in my veins and I know my lungs are taking in air, and when I think of all of that stopping, I feel such horror and sadness that I can’t bear it. I could never kill myself.

  But to go on, after last night — friendless, hopeless, imprisoned in this house of hateful men —

  I find myself needing to write it all out in this book, which is blotted with tears and full of sentiments that aren’t refined. I meant so much better by this book. But then, I meant to have a better life — I meant to better myself, as Miss Chandler said. Only yesterday, I thought it was possible; I was a cocksure little girl who thought she could win the egg money from Father by going on strike. I want to weep for that girl. But at the same time I’m ashamed of her, because she was such a fool.

  I came in from writing last night, with this book still hidden in my workbasket. The sun was down and the house was dim. The men had gone to bed. I came in through the kitchen and I ought to have noticed that the stove was lit and there was a smell of burned paper. I suppose I did notice, but I didn’t stop to think why. The kitchen’s always full of smells, and my mind was on other things.

  I took a candle so I could read when I got upstairs. I thought I’d read a little of Jane Eyre before I went to sleep — the scene in the garden when Mr. Rochester asks her to marry him. I went up to my room and lit the candle and set it on my dresser. That’s when I saw my precious books were missing. The two round stones I use as bookends were there, and the Bible — even Father wouldn’t dare to burn Holy Writ. But the books that Miss Chandler gave me — Dombey and Son, and Ivanhoe, and Jane Eyre — were all gone. I stood aghast. I might have misplaced one of them — left it on the bed or even in the kitchen. But for all three to be missing —

  Then I knew. I knew what Father had done, and I knew why a fire had been kindled in the stove. A different kind of father — not mine — might have taken my books as a rebuke, to be returned after I promised to be more respectful. But my books were gone for good. I knew it.

  I had to make sure. I guess there was one part of me that cherished a hope that maybe one of the books mightn’t have burned to ashes; that I might be able to save just one. I ran downstairs to the kitchen and opened the stove. There was nothing but a bed of cinders.

  I saw the book covers lying in the slop pail, and I shrieked. The slop pail! Leather stinks when it burns, so Father tore the books out of their bindings — I could see the tattered linen webs, with only a few shreds of paper still attached. It made it worse that my books had been mauled like that. I seemed to see Father wrenching out the pages that contained my dearest friends: Jane and Mr. Rochester, Wamba and Rebecca, Florence and Captain Cuttle and Mr. Toots. I remembered Miss Chandler’s handwriting on the flyleaves: “To Joan.” She wrote that in Jane Eyre and Dombey and Son, but “To dear Joan”— that’s what she wrote inside Ivanhoe.

  I ran straight to Father’s bedroom and
yanked open the door. I wasn’t afraid, not one bit, not then; not even when I saw that Father was undressing. He’d lowered his braces and taken off his stockings and boots; he was unbuttoning his shirt. “My books!” I cried. “How could you? You burned my books! You cruel, wicked man, you unnatural father!” And then I echoed Jane Eyre’s very words: “You are like a Roman emperor — you are like a murderer —”

  “That’s enough,” said Father. “You shut up about those books, you hear me? They’re burned up and good riddance.”

  “I won’t shut up,” I said. At that moment, I was fearless. In one of Miss Chandler’s books — I think it was Oliver Twist — I read that when a woman is thoroughly roused, no man dare provoke her. I think I must have been in just that state, because Father seemed startled by my defiance. I screamed at him, “You are like a murderer! You’ve murdered me — taken away everything I care about, and I’ll never forgive you! My books, that Miss Chandler gave me, my only source of —” But there I broke down and sobbed, because I couldn’t even say what those books meant to me. During bad times, I’ve turned to them the way a pious girl might turn to her Bible. There was wisdom in them, though they were storybooks. And poetry. They might not have been books of verse, but they were poetry to me. Miss Chandler says that life isn’t worth living if you haven’t a sense of poetry.

  But I think the most important thing those books gave me was a kind of faith. My books promised me that life wasn’t just made up of workaday tasks and prosaic things. The world is bigger and more colorful and more important than that. Maybe not here at Steeple Farm, but somewhere. It has to be. It has to be.

  I glared at Father through my tears, and he no longer seemed like my father but like some misshapen fiend. “Why are you so horrible to me?” I demanded. “You don’t show me one bit of kindness or affection; you treat me with miserable cruelty! And now you destroy my books! What have I ever done to you?”