by Ruth White
I think if I were lucky enough to become Brody’s bride, I would make him so happy in bed it would never enter his mind to have a fling with anybody else. At that moment I find him looking back at me over the top of Angel’s head. For a split second I imagine that I see my own pain reflected there. I turn away.
When the dance is over, Brody disappears, and Angel dances with Luke several times. Luke seems to have given up on me, and I am relieved. We don’t see Brody again. Angel comments that perhaps he had too much to drink, but I don’t think that’s true. He didn’t even seem to be tipsy. It’s after two-thirty when the last guest leaves. I accompany Angel upstairs, and ask her if I should lay out a nightgown for her.
“No, thanks. “But…Lorie?”
“Yes, Miss Angel?”
“Perhaps it would be best if…you know, if we forget about our earlier conversation. Kapish?” she says, and gives me an uncertain smile.
It’s the first time I’ve heard that word, but I get it. “Kapish,” I respond.
I go back to the ballroom to see if I can help clean up, but I find nobody there except Mrs. Myles, and she is headed for the stairs on her way to bed.
“Just leave the rest of the mess until morning, Lorie,” she says. “I’ve sent the other girls to bed, and you may go as well. No need to get up before ten.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say.
I have almost reached the door when she calls to me, “Oh, will you check to see if all the candles have been outed on the terrace?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a beautiful night. A full moon throws its broad beams into the terrace. A few candles have been left burning, and as I go around blowing them out, I think I hear music. I investigate and find the victrola by the sideboard has been left on. Paul Whiteman’s famous waltz, Three O’Clock in the Morning, is playing. Instead of shutting it off, I place the needle back at the beginning of the record, turn it up just a notch, and listen. I close my eyes, and imagine myself waltzing with Brody.
“One, two, three. One, two, three,” I whisper as I sway back and forth where I am standing.
“May I have this dance?” a voice comes out of the darkness.
I am startled and let out a cry. To encounter Brody in the moonlight while a waltz is playing – it’s surely a dream. But no, it’s actually him sitting there in the shadows, watching me.
“Sorry,” he says as he stands up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” I ask.
“Just thinking,” he says, “and listening to the music.”
He takes my right hand. “We didn’t get to waltz together, did we, Lorelei?”
I am suddenly so weak, I feel as if there are no bones in my body.
“Place your left hand on my shoulder like this,” he says.
I do as he says.
“And I place my right hand here on your waist,” he says, as he does so.
Then he tells me how to move my feet.
“Glide, two, three,” he says, “glide, two, three. “That’s it. You catch on so easily.”
He hums along with the music as we dance. The smell and nearness of him are intoxicating. His right hand moves up my back to pull me close to him.
“Actually,” he says, “I was sitting here watching for you to come out.”
I close my eyes and rest my cheek on his chest. His heart is thundering. His breath is rapid against my forehead. Then we are no longer dancing at all, simply standing very close,
very still.
“Lorelei,” he barely whispers, and his lips are slipping down my cheek.
I raise my face to him, and our lips, upon touching, are slightly parted. His taste is sweet. He pulls me tight against him, and I slip my hands at last around that princely brown neck. Our lips meet again with passion. I have no thoughts, only feelings, as Brody and I cling to each other and kiss in the moonlight.
Suddenly our magic moment is shattered by a harsh voice. “Who is out here!”
Electric lights flood the terrace. We slacken our grip on one another, but stand rooted to the spot. It doesn’t occur to me to move away from Brody because I have been so cruelly jolted
from this dream, I can’t think of anything except what I have lost.
It’s Mr. Myles. “What is this?” he cries, as he stands there studying us.
Brody finally steps away from me, and says to his father, “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Mr. Myles says.
“We were dancing,” Brody says.
Mr. Myles walks closer, narrows his eyes first at me, then at Brody, and back to me again. I am uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“I should go,” I mumble, then turn quickly toward the exit. I glance back only once and see Brody and his father still standing there, face to face.
Twenty-Three
Saturday, June 29th, 1929
I float through the early morning hours on a cloud with Whiteman’s waltz playing in my head. I sleep and dream of making love with Brody. I wake up and daydream. I doze again. Yes, he did say he was sitting there in the dark waiting for me to appear. Yes, he waltzed with me. Yes, he kissed me. And it was more than chills in the tum, it was a lovely fire in the belly. Would Brody tell his father it meant nothing, that I was just a fling? No, he would not deny his feelings for me.
I rise up at ten and dress. As I walk to the main house, I have to glance down at my feet to make sure they are both on the ground. At eleven I attend Mrs. Myles and Mrs. Temple at brunch in the rose garden. Angel is still sleeping. Somehow I know Mr. Myles has said nothing to his wife about me and Brody on the terrace. He, like Brody, probably avoids unpleasant topics with her whenever possible.
I hear the ladies saying the men are playing golf today, and were to breakfast at the club at ten. They talk about the next party which is scheduled for Saturday, July 13th. Mrs. Temple will help host this one, which is to be a charity ball to benefit an orphanage in Falls Church. I also hear them saying that Mr. Temple and Mr. Myles are going to Washington, D.C. together soon to attend a political event at which President Hoover will speak.
So the lives of the Temples and the Myles families have become intertwined already. They have everything in common, and they can hardly contain their excitement over the union of Brody and Angel. By marrying into this old Virginia family, the Temples will become part of an exclusive birthright. As for the Myles family, Angel’s new money will prop up their fortune. They have all kinds of dreams and schemes for their children and grandchildren – yes, Brody’s and Angel’s children. I study the faces of these high society women as they chat so amiably together. They will turn into wildcats if their plans are threatened. A ring of fear circles my heart. I drift down from my cloud.
“Lorie,” Mrs. Myles calls to me. “You may serve the parfait now.”
Parfait? What is parfait? Oh, god, I don’t know anything. I go into the kitchen and find Bridget. “Mrs. Myles said I should serve the parfait,” I say to her.
From the Frigidaire Bridget brings out two tall frosty glasses filled with a mixture that looks like fruit and cream.
Tootsie is standing at a counter preparing cold cuts for the men to eat when they come home from their game. Her nose is red and her eyes appear to be swollen.
“Something wrong, Tootsie?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “Just a summer cold. I’ll be okay.”
I don’t believe her. I think she has been crying. I try to remember when I saw her last at the party. I think it was before the IT girl contest.
“Did you leave the party last night?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “I had to go to bed. I didn’t feel good.”
After I have served the parfait to the ladies, Louise comes and whispers in my ear that Angel is awake and wants me to bring coffee and toast to her room. When I take the tray up, Angel barks that she should have a bell in her room so she doesn’t have to yell down t
he stairs for someone to fetch me. I apologize, and tell her that I will speak to Mrs. Myles about that. She asks me to run her bath, which I do, lacing the water liberally with her special bath oils and salts. As she steps into the huge porcelain tub, I set her coffee and toast on the side. She sinks into the bubbles and closes her eyes.
“I won’t need you again until it’s time to dress for dinner,” she says, then flicks her hand at me as if to say, “Go away.”
Downstairs I find Tootsie, and relieve her from her duties as best I can.
Around four o’clock the men return from golf, tired and hot. After cleaning themselves up they have drinks on the terrace, where the women join them. I help Jenny serve the cold cuts. Brody is very quiet, and does not participate in the conversation. He is also careful not to look at me. Are we all the way back to that?
In the evening I assist Angel in dressing for dinner, then help Tootsie and Bridget in the kitchen while Jenny and Marie serve. I don’t see Brody again. It’s Ellie’s day off and she has brought Nabs from town. It’s after nine o’clock before we come together in her room, dressed in our green and white checked robes. We are all tired, but Tootsie seems especially so.
“You look washed out,” I say to her. “How do you feel?”
Tootsie stares at her hands for a moment before saying, “I can’t stand it anymore. I have to tell somebody. Can y’all keep a secret for me?”
“Of course.”
“You have to promise,” Tootsie says. “It’s important.”
“Yes, we promise.”
“What is it, sweetie?” Marie says, and rubs Tootsie’s back in a motherly way.
“Everybody’s gonna know eventually,” Tootsie says, her lower lip quivering. “But I’d like to keep it among us as long as possible.”
We say nothing more as we wait to hear Tootsie’s secret, but somehow we know – at least I know, and I think the others do too – what she is going to say before she says it.
“I’m expecting a baby.”
Instead of a sharp intake of breath, there’s a kind of sigh, just short of a groan, all around. Oh, lord, it’s the same everywhere. You can leave Starr Mountain, but you can never leave the stories of human nature. Trula. Opal. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Adam Bede. I reach out and touch Tootsie’s hand.
“I’m desperate,” she goes on. “I’ll be able to work for maybe two months if I’m lucky, before I start showing, but then I know Mrs. Myles will make me leave. I’ve been saving every nickel, but it’s not enough.”
“He won’t marry you?” Ellie asks.
“No,” Tootsie says. “He offered to pay for..uh..you know, for getting rid of it.”
Now there is a sharp intake of breath.
“Absolutely not!” Marie says. “Girls have died from forced miscarriages.”
“Well, anyway, I told him no,” Tootsie says. “I want to have this baby. Then maybe I won’t feel so alone.” She wipes a tear from her cheek and the rest of us look at each other with sad eyes.
“You’ve got us, honey,” Jenny says. “For what it’s worth.”
“Tell us what to do,” Ellie says. “We’ll do anything.”
Tootsie smiles. “That’s very sweet. Just be my friends.”
“Where are your parents?” I ask.
“Dead. Daddy in the war, and Mama of consumption the next year.”
“Who raised you?”
“Grandma.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Yes, in North Carolina.”
“Will she take you in?”
“Probably. But she has no income. I was sending money to her when I could.”
“There are laws,” Marie says. “He has to take care of you and the baby.”
“But the law can’t make him want us. The law can’t make him love us.” And she bursts into real tears.
As we reach out comforting hands, Marie says, “I’m the oldest one here, so if you want my advice...do you?”
Tootsie nods her head.
“Well, the deed is done, kid,” Marie goes on, “and now it’s time to be practical. As hard as it might be for you, you have to put the pressure on Mr. Anonymous.”
“How?”
“Tell him he’s got to take care of you and the baby, or you are going to see him in a court of law.”
“If I have to go public,” Tootsie wails, “it will ruin his reputation.”
“Good,” Marie says. “That makes him more likely to do what you ask. He’ll have to help you, or face public ruin.”
“Does he have money?” Jenny asks.
“Lordy, yes,” Tootsie says. “Lots.”
It’s Roman! It has to be Roman. Where else but here would she meet a rich man?
“So there you have it,” I say. “If he can’t give you and the baby the love you need, at least he can support you financially.”
“It will be awful hard to ask him for money,” Tootsie says.
“Good grief, Tootsie!” Marie says. “You’re going to be a mother! Stand up for your child if not for yourself.”
Tootsie blows her nose, and looks around at the four of us. “Does everybody agree?”
We nod our heads. Yes, we all agree.
“Then I guess I’ll have to do it,” she says with a heavy sigh, “no matter how much I hate it. You’re my friends, and I trust you.”
“Good!” Ellie says. “When are you going to tell him?”
“Monday,” says Tootsie. “It’s my day off, so I’ll arrange to see him in town.”
Sunday, June 30th, 1929
I’m off again, but I can’t go shopping because it’s Sunday. Maybe I’ll go see a show – or at least plan for that. What I really want is to spend the day with Brody, but that doesn’t seem likely. The Temples are still here.
I slip into the green dress and hat I bought in Skylark, and walk up to ask Chris to drive me into town for the matinee this afternoon.
“Sure,” Chris says. “The Temples are leaving soon, and I got nothing to do after that. What time?”
“About two,” I say. “I think the first matinee is at two-thirty.”
“So Mr. Brody can’t take you this time, huh?” Chris says with a grin.
I feel my face flush. “We happened to be leaving at the same time last Monday,” I try lamely to explain. “Just a coincidence.”
“Right,” Chris says, still grinning. “I reckon it was also a coincidence that you came back at the same time – at two in the morning?”
I should have known somebody saw us.
“What’s it to you, Chris?” I say.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, Miss IT!”
“What’s your problem, Chris? You mad about something?”
“No miss. Why would I be mad?”
But he is mad. I don’t care. I don’t have to deal with him.
“See you at two then,” I say. “And thanks.”
I turn on my heel and head back to the slave quarters.
“He’s gonna take the middle aisle with that little sheba, you know!” Chris hollers after me. “He’ll not let all that jack get away from him.”
I stop and look back. “What?”
“Yeah, honey. That’s how the rich ones are. They like to play, but when the game’s over, he’s gonna pick the orchid!”
His words rattle me, but I force myself to laugh. “You’re a goof, Chris, you know that?”
Back in my room, I kick off my shoes and curl up on the bed.
He’s gonna pick the orchid.
I pull out my stationery and busy my mind with letter writing. In a while I hear a car and look out to see Chris driving the blue Essex around to the front of the main house. He is going to load up the Temples. Shortly thereafter a light knock sounds at my door. I answer barefooted. I’m thrilled that it’s Brody.
“Can you come with me? I want to show you something.” His voice is low, secretive.
“Of course,” I say. “Just let me get my shoes on.”
&
nbsp; Brody steps into the room and looks around. “So this is where you sleep,” he says. “It looks cozy in here.”
“I love it,” I say. “It’s the only room I’ve ever been able to call my own.”
He glances at an envelope on my night table which is addressed to Jewel.
“Jewel Starr, Starr Mountain, Deep Bottom, Virginia,” he reads. “Is that all the address you need?”
“Sure,” I say, as I slip into the white heels. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have to include Starr Mountain. Mrs. Call, the post mistress, knows everybody.”
We walk to the car port. I dread facing Chris with Brody beside me, but surprisingly we don’t see him. He must have stayed to have lunch in the servants’ hall after seeing the Temples off. We take the LaSalle. The top is open already, and it’s a beautiful day. Brody creeps slowly past the main house as if tiptoeing, and he glances furtively toward the windows as we pass. No one in sight. When we reach the main road, he speeds up, and we turn to each other and smile.
“So what is it you want to show me?” I ask.
“Have you heard of a style of house called the California bungalow?” he asks.
“Yes, but I’ve never actually seen one.”
“They’re selling like hot cakes right now, and I’m thinking of buying one, or several of them – you know – for an investment.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“I want to know what you think,” he says. “I need a woman’s perspective.”
“Oh, Brody, you know much more about houses than I ever will. I’m accustomed to the most humble, and I’ve seen only one of the grandest, which is yours.”
“I will not live in that house,” he says emphatically.
“Why not? It’s a wonderful house.”
“For one thing, I don’t want to maintain it, and for another, I don’t want servants. And I definitely don’t want to be known as the party king. That ballroom is so ostentatious, it’s embarrassing.”
“So you’re thinking of living in a bungalow?” I ask.
