by Ruth White
“That’s a fine dream, Brody.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I can picture myself in thirty years as an old distinguished professor smoking a pipe, and all the students looking up to me as an authority, but…”
“Then do it,” I say.
He folds his arms. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not in my position. You’re not a Myles.”
“No, I’m not a Myles. I’m nobody,” I say. “Which means I have had to move mountains – literally – to make one little thing happen in my life, and that was to become a maid! Brody, if I had your money, your station in life, and all the doors they open up, I sure wouldn’t be whining about my name holding me back!”
Oops. I’ve done it again.
“Are you insinuating,” Brody says, “that the heir apparent is not only a nosy old lady, but a whiner as well?”
Good. Maybe we’re back to bantering. But I don’t know what to say next. His eyes search my face. Does he really want me to go on?
“What’s the worst that will happen if you become a professor?” I ask.
“My family will be devastated with disappointment,” is his answer.
“Devastated? That’s pretty extreme. And why? Teaching is an honorable calling.”
“It’s a working profession. It’s not part of the Myles tradition,” he says.
“Is being miserable part of the Myles tradition?”
“I…I wouldn’t say…well I don’t think I’d be miserable as a…as a…”
“As a what?” I say. “As a lawyer who doesn’t practice law? As a man who doesn’t work for a living?”
Now have I gone too far? “Sorry,” I say.
“No, don’t be sorry! I value your opinion.”
“Your world is so far removed from mine, Brody.”
“I know. I need to hear an outside voice sometimes.”
I take a long, deep breath. “That first day you talked to me about what is expected of Myles men, you were angry, and I sensed it was because you feel crushed under all the tradition. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
He thinks about this for a moment, then says, “Tell me this, Lorelei, if you could do anything, be anything, what would you choose to do with your life?”
“I would find a good college that admits women, and I would go there and study to become a highschool teacher.”
I never knew until this moment that’s what I would do if I could.
“No matter what anyone else thinks of you?” Brody says. “Even if your family, whom you love, is furious with you, and shames you and makes you feel guilty?”
“This is my life,” I say. “I’m the one who has to live it.”
The dinner bell rings, and Brody rises to his feet.
“I have to go,” he says, “or they will come looking for me. We have guests.”
“Of course,” I say. I stand and pick up the book. “You go first.”
His eyes speak volumes to me about conflicting emotions.
“You are not nobody,” he says before leaving the room.
I stand there clutching the book to my chest for a long time.
Nineteen
Saturday, June 15, 1929
It is written up in the society section of the newspaper as the social event of the season – the ball to be held at the Myles estate on Saturday night, the 15th of June. Although the engagement of Mr. Broderick Lynch Myles VII and Miss Angela Billings Temple of Temple Cosmetics, has been announced previously, this ball will formally introduce her into Charlottesville society. Engraved invitations have been sent out to two hundred and fifty guests.
The maids’ dresses are washed, starched, dried, and ironed, and go onto one’s body as stiff as a military uniform. Our special occasion aprons and caps are white lace. Three colored girls arrive in the afternoon to help. They introduce themselves as Jill, Marge and Delia. Mrs. Myles has given us a brief lecture about treating them as equals, so I try not to stare at them and make them feel different.
Angel, of course, needs me to be above stairs with her two hours before the scheduled event, to help her dress. Once there, however, I find myself standing idly by, as her mother, who has arrived from Richmond, takes over. With Angel half naked in front of me, I see that she has no breasts to speak of, and I have to scold myself for being so wickedly pleased at this discovery. But her dress is like a blue dream – sleeveless, and flowing to the ankle. I give my nods of approval and comments of how lovely and how sweet, and how adorable. That’s the extent of my service.
I find myself wondering if I will still be her personal maid on the day of her wedding. How will I feel in attending her as she dresses in her white gown to walk down the aisle with Brody?
I look out Angel’s bedroom window and see that the guests are lining the brick driveway with their shiny automobiles. A live orchestra arrives from Washington D.C., and when we hear them tuning up, we know it’s time.
“Lorie, darling,” Angel whispers as we approach the stairs. “You must, I repeat must stay close to me tonight. I am going to need you.”
“Of course, Miss Angel. I will be right by your side all through the evening.”
And so I am. Even as Brody enters in his elegant tuxedo and silk brocade vest, and greets her with a kiss on the cheek. Even as the guests line up to speak to her as if to royalty, and refer to Brody as a lucky fella. Even as I watch Brody take her little white un-calloused hand into his and lead her onto the dance floor in the ball room. Even as I see them smiling at one another as they dance so divinely together before all the admiring eyes. I stay right where she can find me handily to do her bidding. Yes, even as Brody, all the while, avoids looking at me directly. Still I stand by his Angel.
The maids are not asked to serve alcohol, but somewhere the guests are finding it for themselves. Everyone is given an identical dark blue crystal water glass so that nobody knows what anybody else is drinking. I surmise that some of them actually have water in their water glasses, while others have tea or fruit punch or pop. Angel drinks only coca-cola. The partiers eat mountains of finger food and sweets, and hang on to their little blue glasses all evening, as the talk and laughter grow louder and jollier.
My duties are so trivial, I feel foolish in performing them. I wonder Angel doesn’t feel even more foolish. I keep a handkerchief handy for her to wipe her hands. I keep her glass filled. I fetch food for her when she requests it. I hold onto her tiny silver purse where her lipstick and compact are stashed. I help her repair a chipped fingernail. I accompany her to the bathroom, and do other such silly things as that. When there is not a task at hand, I stand quietly at attention until I am needed again.
As I wait there in my short, starched maid’s uniform, the dancers go whirling past me in their formal evening wear and fine gowns with beads and feathers and scarves fluttering about their scented bodies. Mr. and Mrs. Myles dance together most of the evening, but sometimes Mr. Myles leads another partner onto the ballroom floor. Roman dances with every female guest in the room, young and old alike, and seems to have more fun than anybody else. A couple of times he actually pauses beside me and makes witty remarks as if I were one of the guests.
Brody mingles, making sure that he speaks to everybody in attendance – except me. He also dances sometimes with partners other than Angel. Even without knowing how to dance myself, I can see that he is the best dancer in the room, and his intended bride is almost as good as he is. After a while the dancers spill out onto the terrace where the furniture has been pushed aside. I think it is the most lovely sight in the world to see the beautiful people dipping and flowing in the dim lights of the terrace and the pale light of the moon.
I almost want to cry for the longing that is in me, and I think of the Old Thing in the woods by Willy’s Road, how it goes on wanting and wanting day and night, year after year, but never gets satisfied of its wanting.
At two o’clock the orchestra plays After the Ball, and wraps up for the night, and Mrs. Myles orders Tootsie to turn on the victr
ola and keep the records spinning. Through a haze of cigarette smoke I see Brody and Angel sitting arm to arm with other young people who are almost as beautiful and rich as they are. The maids and the colored girls begin to clean up the litter and debris. I wait for instructions.
“You’re lucky,” Jenny whispers to me in passing.
“Lucky?” I say.
“Yeah. All you have to do is stand here and wait for the commands of the princess.”
“I would much prefer doing what you are doing,” I whisper in return. “My dogs have turned to stone.”
At three o’clock the last guest departs, and Mrs. Myles orders all of us to sleep until ten in the morning. I don’t know where Brody is. I accompany Angel to her room.
“Go to bed, darling,” she says to me. “I can take it from here.”
I escape before she can change her mind. In my room I lie on top of the coverlet without undressing, place my hand on Dixie’s head and stare at the ceiling. I think of Samuel in Caroline’s bed. I think of Trula and Mack. I think of Jewel asleep in our room by herself. All those years of wanting to leave that place, and now I wish that I were tucked snugly and safely into the loft in the log house on the mountain, never knowing anything else outside that little world.
“Brody didn’t even look at me tonight, Dixie,” I say. “You should have seen them dancing together. They were so beautiful. I will never have the chance to dance with him. I have let daydreams blind me, but tonight I can see clearly how far apart we are.”
Dixie looks up at me with big, sad eyes.
I am too numb to feel the pain. I think tomorrow it will hit me like a heart attack. If only I could sleep now. If only I could close my eyes without seeing his face. If only I could get the sad words of that song – After the Ball – out of my head.
Monday, June 17th, 1929
I am summoned to help Marie with serving breakfast in the dining room. Mr. and Mrs. Myles, Brody and Roman are at the table. Angel is sleeping in. Brody is driving her back to Richmond today, and will be staying with her for awhile. I serve him as if he were a stranger. Then I stand by the kitchen door as instructed, in case anything is needed.
Mrs. Myles says the party was a huge success, so I am puzzled that she is so disgruntled. She snaps at Roman for slouching at the table. Although he is a grown man of twenty, he sits erect at his mother’s command. Then he rolls his eyes at me as Mrs. Myles moves on to another grievance.
“I know you tend to lose track of time when you’re with Angel,” she says to Brody, “but don’t forget your father’s birthday party on the 28th . You must be here for that – both of you.”
Oh, god, that means he will be with her for more than a week.
“Did you hear me, Brody?” Mrs. Myles says sharply.
“Yes, Mother, I heard you,” Brody says with weariness in his voice. “The 28th. When did I ever forget Father’s birthday party?”
Back at the slave quarters in the evening we meet in Ellie’s room She has found a bottle of good wine which she shares, but I politely decline, and I am relieved that nobody pressures me to drink.
“Now, hear this!” Ellie says, “Chris drove me into town today – Mrs. Myles’s orders. And from now on, if the cars are not spoken for, he can chauffeur us wherever we need to go.”
“Says you!”
“And how did you get back?”
“He picked me up at five,” Ellie says. “Ladies, we got our own jitney.”
“You are horsing around!”
“Not me. Not today. Mrs. Myles had a change of heart.”
“Did you hear about the big fight between her and Brody?” Tootsie says in a gossipy whisper.
“No. Tell it.”
“I won’t say who told me, but they clashed over Brody’s education.”
“What about it?”
“Well, he says he’s not going to finish his law degree ‘cause he wants to change his course of study. Get this. He wants to be a teacher at the university.”
The girls laugh like this is the funniest thing ever.
“Brody a teacher?”
“Can you believe it? A man who never had to lift a finger in his whole life!”
“He’ll quit as soon as he finds out it’s work.”
“Oh, I think it’s sweet,” Tootsie says, as she takes a big swig of the wine. “Brody is a sweet fella.”
Tuesday, June 18th, 1929
It’s my day off, and the noise in my head starts even before I open my eyes: he is with her..he is with her. He will be with her for ten more days. Ten long days. If I don’t get busy, I will start imagining what they do when they are alone.
I get up and go to breakfast. I collect my pay while I’m there and add it to my stash. I have twenty-six dollars and some change now, but I have a feeling I will have to use much of it when the weather turns cold. I will need a heavy coat and some warm stockings and shoes, and other winter things.
I wash my hair in rainwater, and as I sit on the steps drying it in the sun, I take a look at my hands. I have been using Temple’s hand cream faithfully every night, and yes, the callouses do seem smaller and smoother.
He is with her…he is with her.
I jump to my feet and hurry back to my room. Stay busy. Yes, busy, busy. Catch up on correspondence. I know Jewel and Samuel share my letters with Bea, but she will be pleased to get one of her own. So I write the first letter to her and send her a dollar. Then I do the same for Jewel, giving her some big-sister advice to save her money as I did, so she will have a small nest egg when she finishes highschool. I write short notes to Samuel, Trula, Opal and Mr. Harmon. Next time I’ll write to Luther and Sally, though I have a feeling they couldn’t care less.
I go to the servants’ hall and take stamps from Louise’s box. She sells them to us on the honor system. I leave the right change and place my letters in the outgoing mail.
“Ah, love letters again!” I hear Roman behind me.
“What are you doing in the servants’ hall?” I ask.
He laughs down at me with twinkling blue eyes. He is almost as tall as Brody, and almost as good-looking. And he’s not engaged to be married.
“Believe it or not,” he says, “I am collecting the outgoing mail to take to the mail box. It’s Brett’s job, but he’s off today, and everybody else is busy, so Mother sent me.”
“That is backbreaking work,” I say. “Sure you’re up to it?”
He laughs again, and glances around, as if to check that nobody is close by. “Can you get away for a minute to walk with me?”
“Sure. It’s my day off.”
As we begin our walk down the long driveway, Roman starts riffling through the mail. “Samuel Starr,” he says. “Jewel Starr. Trula Starr. Opal Johns. Russell Harmon? Is he the lucky fella?”
I don’t answer.
“Kissin’ cousin?”
“I would not be so nosy with your personal mail,” I say.
“You would if you got the chance.”
“Would not.”
“Would too.”
We smile at each other. Then his face turns serious. “I’m just jawin’ with you, Lorie, ‘cause I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Nonsense,” I say. “You could talk to a wooden Indian.”
“Not if he rattled me like you do,” he says.
“Mr. Roman, I can’t imagine anybody rattling you.”
“Don’t mister me. I’m just Roman.”
“Okay, just Roman.”
“Have you ever been to a juice joint, Lorie?”
“A what?”
“A juice joint. A speakeasy.”
“Heavens no!” I say.
He laughs. “Why do you say it like that?”
“They’re illegal,” I say. “I don’t want to get pinched.”
“If I guarantee you won’t get pinched, will you go with me?” he says.
This is unexpected, and throws me off my game considerably.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“A bit of giggle water?” I say with a laugh.
He grins. “Just enough to put you in the mood for dancing.”
“I can’t dance,” I say.
“I bet you’d like to learn,” he says.
I look up into his flirtatious eyes. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, he is charming.
“You would teach me to dance?” I say.
“I would love to teach you to dance,” he replies.
“Let me think about it,” I say.
“Well, think fast. I’m going tonight.”
We have reached the mailbox, and Roman stuffs the outgoing mail into it.
The prospect of going out with Roman – having him teach me to dance, maybe sip a tiny bit of illegal wine – is exciting. So why do I feel uneasy?
We start walking back toward the house.
“Of all those pretty girls you were dancing with at the party,” I ask, “there’s not one you want to ask?”
“You were the prettiest girl there,” he says.
“Piffle!” I say. “You must have over-indulged from the blue glass.”
He laughs.
“What about your parents, Roman?”
“Oh, they don’t want to go,” he says.
“You know what I mean. How will they feel about your going around town with one of the maids?”
“They won’t like it. We’ll have to sneak out.”
Sneak?
“I don’t think so, Roman. But thanks. I’m flattered that you asked me.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” he says. “There really is some lucky fella back home?”
Does he think that’s the only reason a girl would turn him down? I just smile. Let him think what he wants.
********************
I lie awake in the wee hours. I have managed to get some of the images of the party out of my head, but tonight, as I try to sleep, they come again in sudden flashes, like somebody jumping out from behind a tree to startle me.
He is with her. He is with her.
I get up in the dark, open the dresser drawer and take out the green, silk nightgown and Brody’s handkerchief. I take everything off and slip into the gown. It is cool and ever-so-soft against my body. I go back to bed and push my face into the handkerchief. His smell in the handkerchief and the softness of the nightgown on my naked skin together bring back that afternoon with him in the rain, and his hand barely touching my hair, as it floated across my back.
