by Ruth White
“Just thinking of it.”
“What will your mother say about that?”
“Well, let’s see now. Changing my course of study from law to literature sent her to bed for nearly a week,” he says. “So if I just mention that I’m even thinking of living in a bungalow we won’t see her for a month.”
The bungalow is not fancy at all, but it’s brand new, neat, small and perfectly adorable. It’s built near a fairly decent road, and surrounded by shrubbery and a green lawn. There are lots of trees close enough to spread shade around, a spacious back yard, and a carport attached to one side of the house. The front porch is large enough to hold a love seat. A couple could sit here in the evenings and call to the neighbors as they pass by. On the back porch there is room for a table where you could have a private breakfast on warm mornings.
Brody unlocks the front door with a key he has acquired from the seller. The living room is large enough that two people could dance in it without bumping into things. There’s a double window overlooking the front lawn. To the left there’s a modern kitchen with a stone floor, an electric stove, a sink with running hot and cold water, a Frigidaire, and a dining area. A girl would have fun here preparing meals for her love. Down a short hallway there are two bedrooms with a lovely white tile bathroom between them. The tub is large enough for two.
Brody watches me as I look into cabinets and closets. “Your eyes are shining.”
“I love it,” I say. “But what do I know?”
“You know as much as anybody,” he says.“Isn’t it perfect for a small family? So snug and comfy.”
Of course the small family I see living in this house is Brody and me, but I keep that daydream to myself. Out loud I say, “You’ll have no trouble selling this one. Are they all alike?”
“Not exactly, but close. I’ve seen three of them.”
“I would buy one,” I say, “if I could.”
“Do you think you’d be happy in a house like this?” he says.
“Oh, yes.” For some reason I think of Mr. Harmon asking me if I wanted to go to college, as if I had that choice. “It’s just one dream too many,” I had said to him. And now I say it to Brody. “It’s just one dream too many.”
Brody gives me a strange look. It reminds me of the way Dixie cocks her head to one side as she eyes me.
“What about you, Brody? Would you be happy in a house like this?”
“Why not? Do you think I’m too spoiled to appreciate a simple home?”
“No. You’re not spoiled at all.” Then it just slips out. “But what about Angel?”
His face immediately grows dark, and I bite my tongue.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and walk to the front window where I look out at the green lawn. Here is a lovely view of rolling pastures.
“We’re in the country,” Brody says, as he comes up behind me, “but we’re only a few miles from the university. It’s predicted that this area will explode in growth during the coming years. I am thinking of buying about a thousand acres of land right around here.”
“Sounds like a wise investment,” I say.
“I think so. I had another one of my dreams.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“I was running around frantically trying to hide my money because this giant black monster was coming to get it. I stuffed it in my mattress. I hid it in the attic. I pushed it under the floor boards. I buried it in the ground. And that’s when I felt it was safe – in the earth, in the land.
“When I woke up, I remembered something Grandfather said to me shortly before he suffered the stroke. He told me he no longer had faith in the stock market. He advised me to invest my inheritance in something solid, in the event the big money institutions go bust.”
We stand side by side looking at the view.
“The land will always be here,” he says.
We are silent, and I can hear him breathing. It would be a perfect time to get back to our interrupted kiss on the terrace, but I think I have spoiled the moment by speaking of Angel.
“Lorelei, I have a serious problem to solve,” he says.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.
“No, I have to work it out for myself, and I can’t tell you about it. You can help just by being your usual sweet self.”
As we walk around the yard, he grows quieter. Finally he looks at his watch and says, “I have to go. My father…”
He doesn’t finish that thought. We climb back into the LaSalle and head toward home.
“I’ve finished reading The Bridge of San Luis Rey,” I say to him, trying to elevate the mood. “Shall we discuss it?”
We have a brief conversation about the book and discover that neither of us really loved it, but we agree on its merits.
“What’s next?” I ask. “I’m all out of reading material.”
“I suggest two books,” he says. “My Antonia by Willa Cather – you’ll love it – and The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. It’s a favorite of mine.”
“Will you put them in my mailbox?” I ask.
“No, I want you to feel free to go into the library whenever you feel like it.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Yes. If anybody inquires, you can tell them I gave you permission.”
Twenty-Four
Monday, July 1st, 1929
The other maids and I are usually making jokes when we come together at the end of the day, but tonight in Tootsie’s room, nobody is laughing. We quietly position ourselves on her bed, and accept the Bit-O-Honey candies she has brought us from town.
“You shouldn’t have spent money on us today,” Jenny says. “But thank you.”
“We were thinking about you,” Marie says as she places a hand on Tootsie’s arm. “I was saying a little prayer.”
“How did it go?” Ellie asks. “Did you keep your nerve?”
“Yes, I did,” she says, and gives us a brave smile. “I surprised even myself. I managed to set aside my feelings for him, and I can’t tell you how hard that was, but I did it. I knew I had to be practical, like Marie said – for the baby.”
“Good for you,” Jenny says.
“I told him if he’s not going to marry me, then I want child support,” Tootsie goes on, “and if he doesn’t pay up, I will see him in court. His face went pale, and he accused me of hiring a two-bit lawyer. I told him no, I haven’t hired a lawyer yet, but it’s my next move, and he’ll have to pay for that too.”
“I’m proud of you, Tootsie!” I say. “It took guts.”
“Then what happened?” Ellie asks.
“He said he’ll have to ask his old man for it. So I said I don’t care who gives it to me as long as I get it.”
“Good for you!” says Marie.
“I don’t like being mean,” Tootsie says. “I would rather go away and let him be, but I have to think of my baby.”
“Did you tell him how much money you want?” Marie asks.
“Yes. Nine thousand clams.”
Our mouths fall open.
“Holy moley!” Jenny exclaims.
“Nine thou….” Ellie says. “That’s a lot of scratch.”
“How on earth did you come up with that figure?” I ask.
“I know my numbers,” Tootsie says confidently, “and I know how much things cost. So after I talked to y’all the other night, I went back to my room and did some ciphering. Five hundred a year for eighteen years is nine thousand dollars. Even with that, I’ll have to go on working, if I can find another job.”
We just look at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter.
“What?” Tootsie says, puzzled at our amusement. “What?”
“No wonder he turned white!” Jenny squeals.
“When you go after a mac, you don’t fool around!” Marie says.
“I thought you would come in here tonight and tell us you asked him for a couple of hundred, or something ridiculous like that,” says Ellie.
“What happened
to that meek little girl who said she just hated to ask the man for money?” I say.
Tootsie smiles. “I told him as plain and straight as I could. I said, ‘I don’t know about you, but for my part, this baby was conceived in love, and I’m trying to do the best I can by it.’”
That shuts us up, as I’m sure it shut him up too. A nice breeze blows the curtains at the windows. It feels like hope drifting in.
“Does he have that kind of money?” I ask.
“The family does,” she says. “They won’t even miss it.”
“When will you know?” Jenny asks.
“Some time this week. He said he dreads telling his father, and I told him I kinda dread having a baby too, without being married, you know? But I can’t back out of it now.”
“If you don’t get the money, Tootsie, what will you do, really?” Marie asks.
She doesn’t answer. But we know Tootsie is not the kind of person to get pushy. If he doesn’t deliver, she will fold her tent like the Arabs, and as silently steal away.
Tuesday, July 2nd, 1929
At lunch time I slip down the hallway to the library with The Bridge of San Luis Rey in my hand. I will have to search for the two books Brody recommended. I am very quiet because I feel like an intruder. As I put my hand on the doorknob, I hear a muffled conversation from inside the room. I withdraw my hand. I should leave. I can do this tomorrow or any time. I listen for a moment, but I can’t distinguish any words. Then suddenly I hear Brody’s voice loud and clear booming above the others. He is obviously distraught.
“For god’s sake, Father, let’s give the girl her nine thousand, and be done with it!”
His words ring in my ears and go on ringing and ringing. Let’s give the girl her nine thousand. I waste no time getting back to work.
The maids are meeting in Tootsie’s room again tonight, but I beg off with the excuse that I have cramps, which is a lie. I take a bath and go straight to bed.
It has to be Roman. Of course it is. Brody was speaking for Roman. Brody is twenty-one. I’m pretty sure he has his own money. Still….there’s that incident of the man in Tootsie’s room on the same night Brody arrived home late from Richmond. How can I stop the nagging voices in my head?
I have a serious problem to solve. I can’t tell you, and I have to work it out by myself.
That’s how the rich ones are. They like to play. But when the game’s over, he’s gonna pick the orchid!
Men like Brody have flings with girls like you all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.
Let’s give the girl her nine thousand, and be done with it!
I called Eddie Johns a fickle beau for trying to court me when he was Opal’s boyfriend. Now here is Brody, a man engaged to be married, playing with my feelings, and maybe Tootsie’s as well, and who knows how many others?
Friday, July 5th, 1929
The whole place is like a tomb. Independence Day passed by almost unnoticed. Mrs. Myles has gone to her room, maybe forever. Mr. Myles has been angry and gloomy. I haven’t seen Brody or Roman at all. Early this morning Brody and his father left in the LaSalle to drive to Richmond. From there Mr. Myles and Mr. Temple are taking a train to Washington, D.C. for the Hoover event. Brody will spend the weekend with Angel and drive back home with his father on Monday.
Tootsie has not heard if her demands are being met, and she is on pins and needles waiting. The other maids are not hopeful for her, but I am.
I have received letters from Opal and Jewel. Opal writes that she is happy. She is planning for an October baby. Rose and Vic are married and living in Granger with his family. Eddie sends his love. Jewel writes that she misses me awfully, Dad is doing strange things, and Samuel is coughing all the time. Dr. Wayne is looking after him.
Oh, god, Samuel, Samuel. Please be well. How I miss you!
I perform my duties mechanically. I know it will not be easy to get another job, but I wonder if I can stay here. It will become more and more painful as Brody’s wedding day approaches.
I am polishing the dining room table when Marie finds me and whispers in my ear, “Tootsie got her money.”
“Good!”
“She put in her two-weeks notice,” Marie goes on, “but Mrs. Myles has told her to be out of here by four o’clock today.”
“Why would she do that?” I ask, even though I believe I know why.
“There’s only one reason I can think of,” Marie says. “Mrs. Myles knows everything, and one of her sons is involved.”
One of her sons? Yes, one of her sons. Oh, god, Marie doesn’t know which one it is either.
“Tootsie is packing her things,” Marie continues, “and Chris is driving her to the train station soon. We are taking turns going to her room to tell her goodbye. When Jenny gets back, you can go.”
I find Jill in the servants’ hall tying her apron. Mrs. Myles has wasted no time in replacing Tootsie.
“I’m temporary,” Jill explains, “until Mrs. Myles can find someone permanent. I’m sorry to see Tootsie leave. Did she find another job, or what?”
“I have no idea,” I lie. “We are all surprised.”
Later I am able to slip out of the house and run to Tootsie’s room. I find her carefully folding items of clothing and placing them inside a suitcase. Her eyes are red and swollen again.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say as I hug her. “But I’m glad you got your money. It will make your life easier.”
She clings to me. “I was called into town to a law office,” she says, sniffing. “It was just me and the lawyer in the room, and I was so intimidated by him.”
“He sent you to his lawyer?” I say. “He wasn’t man enough to speak for himself?”
“Yeah. The lawyer delivered the money and made me sign a legal document. He read it to me as if I couldn’t read, and explained it to me as if I were a child!”
“I’m so sorry it ended this way. I know you loved him.”
“I’ll get over him,” she says. “I imagine I’ll even grow to hate him. Then I’ll come to realize I am the better person, no matter how much money he has. But right now I feel like dirt.”
“What did he make you sign?” I ask.
“The lawyer called it a confidentiality agreement. I have to leave the state and I must never tell anybody who the father of my child is, or contact him or his family ever again.”
As we sit side by side on her bed, I think of the first day I saw her. She looked like a pixie in her green uniform and bobbed red hair. And she was happy. Now here she is the saddest little thing in the world, all because she loved a man.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To Grandma’s in North Carolina. We’ll take care of each other. Most girls in my situation are not so lucky, and I can understand why some of them do desperate things.”
I know I should get back to work now, but I may never see Tootsie again. She will leave here and I won’t know for sure if it was Brody or Roman. And she has signed a legal paper never to tell anybody. I am suddenly panic-stricken. How can I let her go without knowing?
“Tootsie,” I say, and I find that my voice is shaky. “I have to know who the father is.”
“Why would you ask me that?” she says crossly. “You know I can’t tell. That paper was legal and binding, and I signed my name to it. I could lose everything.”
“It’s important, Tootsie. You can trust me, and I have to know. I have to.”
Now I feel frantic, and she looks at me with a puzzled expression.
“What are you saying?” she probes.
“I know it’s one of them,” I say.
“One of who?”
“The Myles men. I have to know which one. Please?”
“What…what makes you think it’s one of them?” she asks.
“It didn’t take much to figure it out. Marie thinks it too.”
“Lorie, I took the money and signed the paper only this morning. I’m not going back on my word this afternoon.”
“Please,” I say. “I’m begging you.”
Now there is concern on her face. “What is it?” she says sweetly, and lifts my chin to look into my eyes. “What are you not saying?”
I pounce on those words. “Yes! That’s it, Tootsie. You don’t have to say it either – not who it is. Just tell me who it is NOT.”
She stares at me with those pretty blue eyes, wondering, puzzling.
“I will never, ever breathe a word of who it is NOT,” I say. “I swear it.”
“Oh, honey, he will break your heart,” she says softly.
“I know.”
Tootsie sighs a deep long sigh. “Listen,” she says. “I am going to say two words, no more, no less – just two words. Then you must promise never to speak of this again.”
“I promise.”
“Not Brody,” she says very clearly and distinctly, and shakes her head back and forth at the same time.
I burst into tears of relief. “Goodbye, sweet girl,” I sob, then hug her again and leave the room.
Not Brody. Not Brody. Not Brody.
Part IV: The Old Thing: Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday, July 7, 1929
At eight o’clock I am serving breakfast to Mrs. Myles and Roman. I’m surprised to see him up so early on a Sunday, but then I hear him telling his mother he is going to play golf with Luke Wayne.
“Remind Luke about the charity ball on Saturday,” Mrs. Myles says. “Angel’s mother is playing hostess with me. It will be a ritzy affair.”
“Lorie,” Louise whispers in my ear. “Bridget needs you in the kitchen. Ellie will look after the table.”
I find Bridget with three baskets full of fresh black raspberries.
“Jeff and Brett were up early picking these before the heat of day,” she says.
“They look delicious.”
“I’m sure they are,” Bridget agrees, “but Mrs. Myles has guests coming for dinner, and I don’t have time to mess with berries. They won’t save for long.”
“That’s true,” I say. “They will soon go mushy in this temperature.”
“I heard you say one day that you used to make preserves and jams out there on that mountain.”
