by Ruth White
“Dr. Wayne has such nice things to say about you.”
I smile. “He has been very kind to me. Mrs. Wayne wanted me to tell you that she misses your parties.”
“That charming girl,” Mrs. Myles says. “And we miss her and Dr. Wayne too. Such lovely people. You know Dr. Wayne was very concerned for your welfare there in your mountain home. I understand that your father was…well, shall we say negligent in his familial duties?”
I have never discussed family problems with anybody outside the family, and I am somewhat embarrassed that Dr. Wayne has passed this information to Mrs. Myles, or that she would bring up the subject now. I glance at Brody and Roman. Both of them are staring at me intently.
“My father doesn’t know any other way of doing things, Mrs. Myles,” I say. “It may be that he has done his best.”
There is silence in the room. Mrs. Myles is studying my face.
“At any rate,” I go on, “that chapter is closed. I am here to begin a new life, and I am grateful for this opportunity.”
I hope I have dismissed the subject without being dismissive.
“Doesn’t she speak well?” Mrs. Myles says, turning to her sons for confirmation of her opinion.
“Indeed she does,” one of them replies.
“No hillbilly twang at all,” Mrs. Myles comments. “How do you manage it?”
I am beginning to feel like a curious Appalachian specimen under a microscope.
“I work at it,” I say.
With one hand I nervously push my hair away from my eyes. Mrs. Myles uses this opportunity to seize that hand, then the other one, and pull them toward her for inspection.
“Oh, my dear. How did you get these terrible callouses?” she says.
I want to sink through the floor. “Doing laundry,” I mumble, “and working in the garden.”
“Laundry?” she says.
“Yes ma’am. We – my sisters and I – had to wash everything on a scrub board with harsh soap. Are you familiar with scrub boards, ma’am?”
Again there is silence in the room as they all stare at me.
“No, my child,” Mrs. Myles says kindly. “I don’t know what a scrub board is, but I can imagine. Here you will do laundry with a modern washing machine.”
“That’s good news,” I say, and try to smile.
“I want you to know, Lorie,” she goes on, “that we are a household that believes in equality. Everyone is treated as an equal here.”
She goes back to her desk, and I quickly stash my hands behind my back, then glance at the sons again. The blond, blue-eyed one is still eyeing me. He gives me a slight smile. The dark, brown-eyed one appears to have gone into a sullen funk. His arms are crossed, and he seems to be glaring at a small sculpture of a milk maid which is nestled among the books on a shelf in front of him.
“You will get a day off for every five you work,” Mrs. Myles says. “I find these frequent breaks help my girls cope with mundane duties. You will get your pay from Louise on your day off. You will also get your orders from her.”
She puts her glasses back on and studies an oversized calendar on her desk, where the household schedule is obviously penciled in. “To work your way into the five/one rotation, you will begin with only three days on, then take a day off.” She folds her glasses and looks at me again. “You should go for your uniform fitting now before breakfast. And Lorie, about your hair...”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“It’s quite lovely, but have you ever considered having it bobbed?”
“No!” comes from one of the sons, before I can even react.
I turn to see who has spoken. It’s the dark one. He has risen from his seat.
“I mean..,” he says, “What I mean is...”
He is now the focus of attention instead of me, for which I am grateful, but he appears to have lost his train of thought.
“What do you mean, Brody?” Mrs. Myles asks.
“It doesn’t seem fair to ask her to cut her hair,” he says.
“I concur,” the blond one says.
Mrs. Myles hesitates, studies her sons thoughtfully, then concedes. “Of course you’re right. It isn’t fair.” She turns back to me. “Please ask Louise for a hair net, Lorie, to contain your locks while you’re on duty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Oh, by the bye, Lorie,” the blond son speaks up again. “I’m afraid Mother forgot to introduce us. I am Roman Myles. It’s swell to meet you.”
“And you, Mr. Roman,” I say.
I glance at the other one.
“I’m Brody,” he says, then walks forward to shake my hand. “Welcome, Lorelei.”
Mrs. Myles says, “My husband has business with his broker in New York. You will meet him when he returns. You may go now.”
I find my way back along the dark corridor toward the servants’ hall, feeling somehow deflated. It did not feel like a good interview. Nothing about it felt right. And I didn’t give another thought to borrowing a book. It seemed inappropriate.
Louise, the housekeeper and maids’ supervisor, is a soft-spoken woman in her forties. She is married to Zack, the head gardener, and they live in their own house in town with two teen children. She sizes me for a uniform and manages to find a net large enough to bundle up my unruly hair. I like the way the dress fits me. It’s ducky, as Tootsie would say, and the white pleated cap sits on top of my head like a little crown.
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur as Tootsie and I grab breakfast on the run. Then she teaches me how to set a proper table, how to fold a napkin, how to operate the washing machine, how to wash the crystal and polish the silver, and a dozen other things.
After the family has lunch in the dining room, Tootsie and I eat with the other maids in the servants’ hall. Bridget the cook is also there. She is a widow who lives in town with her daughter. Louise, Chris and the three gardeners, Jeff, Brett and Zack, eat with us as well. I learn that Chris lives in number eleven at the slave quarters, Jeff in ten and Brett in nine. Jeff and Brett are brothers, probably in their fifties, and both are very shy.
I spend the afternoon learning the kitchen, which is a huge, complicated room with a thousand new-fangled gadgets. By five o’clock I feel my energy dribbling away, not from hard work, because I’m used to that, but from the stress of learning so many new tasks and new people, and trying to remember everything I’m told. Louise notices that I’m flagging.
“That’s enough for the first day, Lorie,” she says kindly. “Grab a bite to eat, and go on to your room.”
“Am I not needed to help with supper?” I ask.
“No. It’s just the missus tonight. The boys are going out. That makes it easy. And do check your mailbox. There’s something in it from Mrs. Myles.”
I get food from Bridget and carry it back to the servants’ hall. In my mailbox I find a jar withTemple’s Hand Cream printed on the label. Below that – For skin that’s soft and white, use Temple’s every night. On the back side of the jar I read Temple’s Cosmetics Co., Richmond, Virginia. So the Temples of Richmond have obviously made their fortune in cosmetics.
I walk back to the slave quarters, with so many new things flying through my head, I can hardly sort them out. I release my hair from the net and feel a great relief as it cascades freely down my back again. And there is my sweet Dixie girl waiting for me at the foot of the steps. I sit down to pet her.
“It’s been quite the day, Dixie,” I say. “I could have used you to help me through it, but you probably are not allowed in the house.”
She grins up at me, then pushes her head under my hand, to remind me to go on petting.
“There you are,” someone says, and I look up to see Brody walking toward us.
Dixie wags her tail at the sound of his voice.
“Why did you run away from me?” he asks the dog as he pets her.
“Is she your dog?” I ask.
“She belonged to my grandfather. He died a year ago.”
“And I assume that would be Broderick Lynch Myles V?” I emphasize each part of the name, in an attempt at ribbing him a bit regarding his family’s long line of Brodericks.
Brody, however, remains solemn. “That’s right,” he says. “Since he died, the dog hasn’t been special to anyone. I give her all the attention I can, but I think she feels lost.”
He leans against the wooden railing beside me. His sleeves are rolled up above his biceps so that I can see how brown and muscular he is, with his hair and eyes as dark as his mother’s. I comment to him that he has his mother’s coloring.
“Yeah, I got the Italian blood, and Roman got the English.”
“So she’s Italian? Is that the accent I heard?”
“Yes. Very Italian. Her family – the Romanos – owns a legendary vineyard in Italy.”
“I think your mother is the first Italian I’ve ever met,” I say.
“Well, let me take this opportunity to apologize for her behavior toward you this morning,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“First of all, she didn’t even bother to introduce me and Roman to you, which in her own eyes, is an unforgivable breach of etiquette.” I sense anger beneath his words. “Then she
seemed to delight in picking on you,” he goes on, “like using the word hillbilly, for example, and talking about your father, your hands, your hair. It didn’t occur to her that you might be uncomfortable discussing those matters with strangers.”
There. Brody has made clear to me what was wrong with the interview. And I’m glad to learn it wasn’t my fault. But why is he so angry?
“If you were not a servant, she would not treat you that way,” he goes on.
“When you’re established here, you must remind her of her own policy to treat everyone as an equal.”
“I don’t know if I would have the nerve.”
“She’s not so scary. You saw how Roman and I turned her around about the hair bobbing. She’s quite willing to listen and to admit when she’s wrong. She’ll have more respect for you if you stand up to her.”
I wonder if he isn’t talking to himself.
“Thank you for defending me,” I say.
“Not at all,” he says. “Do you think I could stand idly by and see that exquisite hair cut off?”
Immediately he places a finger lightly to his lips, as if to remind himself not to be so friendly with the help. But it’s too late. The words are said and can’t be unsaid. He backs a few steps away from me, and there’s an uncomfortable pause.
Feeling a distraction is needed, I grab the bottle of hand cream. “Temple’s Hand Cream,” I say merrily, as I show him the label. “For skin that’s soft and white, use Temple’s every night.”
He seems a bit startled. Then understanding crosses his face. “Oh. Temple’s,” he mutters, “From Mother, of course, for your hands.”
“I hear you and Miss Angela Temple are engaged to be married,” I say. “That’s so..oo exciting.”
Why did I say that? Why am I acting like a silly girl all of a sudden?
He bites his lip and looks away toward the horizon. “Yes,” he says. “As soon as I finish with my law degree next June.”
“Oh, you’re going to be a lawyer?”
Now he gives me a look I cannot interpret. “No. Haven’t you heard? Myles men don’t work for a living. We get degrees, marry the richest girl we can find, and live out our lives as
country gentlemen.”
It dawns on me that inside that handsome head a conflict is raging that has nothing to do with me, and I must have the good sense not to say anything else.
“Have a nice evening, Lorelei Starr,” he says. “Come along, Trixie!”
And he abruptly leaves with my dog.
Trixie? Well, I was close.
********************
In my room I write letters to Samuel and Jewel. I tell them about the family, the house, the cars, the other servants, and the good food. Again, I bathe early and wash my hair, so
that I’m in my room when the other maids return. This night, however, they come knocking at my door. When I answer, Tootsie and Jenny are there wearing robes identical to mine.
“Come to Marie’s room, number six. She’s been into town and brought cracker jacks for everybody.”
It’s like a party, and it’s the first one I’ve ever been invited to. I’m excited.
“Just let me put on a dress,” I say, “and dry my hair a bit.”
“Oh, no, come wet, and wear your nightgown and robe,” Jenny says, “like the rest of us.”
Nightgown? I suppose that’s something I should buy. I’m wearing my petticoat under the robe.
Marie is small and perky, and at twenty-five, the oldest among us, but she’s the only one who’s engaged to be married. She has spent the day with her beau. She passes the cracker jacks around. I have seen these boxes at Call’s with the sailor boy and his dog on the front, but I’ve never actually bought one. I do know there is a prize in the bottom of every box.
“Listen up,” Ellie says, as we are all settled on Marie’s bed. “Whoever gets a ring in her cracker jacks is going to get married within a year.”
“Yeah! Yeah!” the girls shout.
Then we tear into the boxes and start digging around in the sticky popcorn and peanuts for the prize.
“Horsefeathers!” Jenny cries. “I got nothing but a tin Lizzie on a string!”
“I got an itsy-bitsy rubber horse,” says Tootsie.
“I got a – I don’t know what the dickens I got,” says Ellie. “What is this thing?”
My prize is a yellow rubber ring with a small piece of glass glued to it. I put the ring on and wave my hand around. “I got a diamond ring!”
We go into peals of laughter.
“Lorie’s gonna be a bride!”
“Me too!” Marie cries. “I got a ring too.”
The other girls groan. “Oh, Marie, that’s like predicting the sun’s gonna rise tomorrow!”
“Yeah, Marie, you were supposed to let us get the ring!” Tootsie says peevishly.
“Don’t worry, Tootsie, you’ve got that secret man of yours no matter what the cracker jacks say.”
“Congrats, Lorie! Who’s the fella?”
“I don’t have one,” I say.
“Not yet!” Marie cries. “But hey girls, look at those eyes and that chassis. Some guy is gonna be putty in her hands.”
As we eat our molasses-covered popcorn, I glance around at the friendly faces. I have never had girlfriends, except for Opal, and she’s my cousin. Now I have four of them, and they all seem to like me.
“So where’s the hooch?” Tootsie says to Marie.
“What hooch?” Marie says, but she has a grin on her face.
“Don’t play innocent with me. Bring it out.”
Marie goes to her closet and comes back with a bottle full of dark liquid. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess. Oh, lord, are they going to drink alcohol?
“Chuck couldn’t get the good stuff this time,” Marie says. “His bootlegger got pinched.”
She unscrews the top from the bottle.
“No cork!” Ellie screeches. “It must be rot gut.”
“It’s got no cork ‘cause it’s homemade,” Marie says. “Appalachian blackberry.” She turns up the bottle and chugs. “Jesus! Mary and Joseph!”
She spews a purple liquid from her mouth and tries to catch it with her hand. As she goes to the wash stand to rinse her mouth and hands, the rest of us scream with laughter. I am somewhat relieved. If it’s that bad, they’ll just pour it out, won’t they? No such luck. Marie passes the bottle to Tootsie.
“Look out tum-tum!” Tootsie hollers. “Here it comes!” She turns up the bottle and drinks. Her reaction is not quite as entertaining as Marie’s. She swallows and says, “Not bad.” But her face tells a different story. It appears she has tasted a green persimmon.
It’s Ellie’s turn. She takes a big drink, swallows and
puckers her lips, but says nothing.
“Ellie will drink anything,” Tootsie says, as the bottle is passed to me.
“No, let Jenny go next,” I say, frantically searching my brain for any excuse. In my head I can hear Dad’s booming voice, “It’s the devil’s brew!”
Jenny drinks without drama and hands the bottle to me. I take a small sip because I don’t know what else to do. It does not taste as bad as I anticipated. I swallow.
“It’s not good,” I manage to say, “but it’s not that bad either.”
I get a chorus of cheers.
“Didn’t I tell you she’s no bluenose?” Tootsie says.
“The trick is to take it in small doses,” I say, as if I have done this many times before and now feel qualified to instruct others.
“Good advice,” Marie says, as she takes another swig.
After the wine has gone around four times I feel a bit giddy. The fifth time there are barely two drops left. I drain it.
“Uh-oh!” I say and turn the bottle upside-down to show the others it’s empty.
“Dead soldier!” Ellie says. “Time to turn in.”
Everybody, including me, groans.
“What time is it anyhow?” someone asks.
“Eleven,” someone answers.
“Eleven o’clock!” I exclaim.
“I don’t care,” Jenny says. “I’m off tomorrow.”
“I don’t care either,” says Ellie. “It’s gonna be an easy week. The boys are leaving in the morning. They won’t be back till Saturday.”
“Where are they going?” Marie asks.
“Brody is going to Richmond to see his Angel, and Roman is going along for the ride.”
Back in my room, I look at myself in the mirror. Are my pupils as large as dimes?
“It was just a few sips, Lorelei,” I say aloud. “You are not drunk, and you’re not going to hell.” I look at the yellow rubber ring on my finger. “Cracker jacks can be wrong!” I say to that strange girl in the mirror, the one who just got back from a party where she drank hooch.
I take off the ring and massage my ugly red callouses with the hand cream. Soft and white? It’s worth a try. I have no more thoughts of home this night. As soon as my light is out, I fall asleep.
