Three weeks after Aunt Mittie sent the admission request to Thorsby Institute, my salvation arrived in the afternoon post. We received word that I was accepted and, even though starting so late in the semester was frowned upon, the headmistress, Ms. Helen Jenkins, understood my unique and unfortunate situation, and agreed to allow me to start as soon as I could arrive in Thorsby.
Along with the acceptance letter was a catalogue that detailed the curriculum, supply list for my classes and living quarters, the student code of conduct, and the precise requirements of the dress code for young ladies enrolled at Thorsby Institute. Day dresses, stockings, gloves, and a hat were to be worn every day on and off campus. Violation of the dress code would result in privileges being revoked and possible expulsion. Mittie and I read through the entire catalogue, word for word, after all of the laundry was completely washed, dried, and ironed for the day.
“Well, I guess us ladies will be spending the day in town tomorrow,” Mittie said after neatly returning the catalogue to its linen envelope. “No niece of mine is gonna walk around Thorsby with grease-stained dresses and threadbare gloves. No ma’am!”
The next day, Mittie bought me two new day dresses, two pairs of stockings, new gloves, a new hat, and the most beautiful lavender party dress with tiny pearl buttons down the bodice. Well, the buttons were fake pearls, but I could barely tell. She decided that these items, combined with my two church dresses, winter coat, and the hats I brought from the hotel, would make a proper wardrobe for a young lady. She also agreed to help me take in the blue floral dress from Daddy so that it would fit me properly again. I had lost quite a bit of weight over the last several months. Between my responsibilities at the hotel and ironing in the heat, I was thin as a rail. In return for her generosity, I promised Mittie that I would make her proud at Thorsby.
That afternoon when we got back to the farm, I was so excited to show Meg my new things, especially the party dress. I ran upstairs and showed her the delicate buttons and pretty flutter sleeves. I never considered that she would be anything but happy for me. I was wrong. Meg was furious and stormed out of the tiny room.
When I tried to chase after her, Aunt Mittie stopped me, “Let her go, Honey. She’ll get her turn soon enough.”
That Sunday, Papa Lowman came home with us after church. After a very lengthy discussion with Uncle Melvin and Aunt Mittie, they all agreed that I would start Thorsby Institute a week from that Monday. Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin would drive me the two counties north to Chilton County on the following Saturday. They would help me get settled in my room at the boarding house, and drive back on Sunday. So, over the span of barely six months, I left my childhood home in Frisco City, lived in a hotel in Grove Hill, scrubbed laundry on a farm in Luverne, and would soon reside in a boarding house as the newest student at Thorsby Institute. Momma was right. A new adventure could be found around any corner. I just had to take the turn.
Chapter 13
November 1934
Thorsby, Alabama
As Uncle Melvin’s truck turned onto Main Street in Thorsby, Alabama, I could barely hide my excitement. My nervousness actually made Mittie smile.
“Hattie, Dear, you are allowed to be happy,” Mittie said and patted my knee.
Happy was an understatement. My face might not have shown it, but I was thrilled. Inside, I danced, leaped. I was going back to school! This was an adventure I actually wanted rather than one I was forced to endure. For three weeks, I had done nothing but dream of the possibilities. Maybe Thorsby Institute would have a real library like the ones mentioned in my mystery novels. Maybe I would have my own room and a window with sun dancing through sheer, white curtains. Maybe, across the hall from my little piece of heaven, a high-spirited girl with an infectious laugh would live and be as desperate for a best friend as I had become since leaving Frisco City.
Above all, I was excited about a fresh start. I prayed that no one in Chilton County had ever met a Lowman or Andrews. This was my opportunity to be someone other than poor, pitiful Hattie Andrews: Girl without a mother, and daughter of an accused murderer. I didn’t know anyone who lived in Chilton County, so how could they know of my now infamous parents or me? And thanks to Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin’s generosity of a new wardrobe, I could dress the part of carefree debutant or serious academic, whichever I chose to be. A month earlier, the hundred miles of old stage coach roads and Indian paths between Crenshaw and Chilton Counties might as well have been a million miles long. Before Aunt Mittie mentioned Thorsby, the thought of traveling those roads had never crossed my mind. As we rode closer and closer to Thorsby, I decided the six hours of roads that serpentine between Luverne and Crenshaw County were just enough time and distance to deliver my rebirth as smart, chic Hattie Andrews, Thorsby Institute student.
When we pulled up to Thorsby Institute, I was overwhelmed by its size. A huge stone building stood before me, with five large steps that led to heavy, dark wooden doors. Above the doors was a large stone archway with the words Thorsby Institute carved in the stone. The building was inviting and terrifying at the same time. I stood at the bottom of the steps and marveled at my new world.
“Well, come on now, get on up there,” said Melvin as he dusted off his hat and ushered Aunt Mittie and me up the stairs.
Through the large double doors was an impressive foyer with marble floors and a gigantic portrait of Theodore T. Thorson, founder of Thorsby, Alabama, as stated on the small plaque at the bottom of the ornately carved frame. The foyer led to a long hallway with dark, wooden floors and several closed doors. The first door had a sign on it that read Administrative Offices.
“This way, you two. Quickly now,” said Mittie, motioning for Uncle Melvin to open the door.
“Go on now,” Mittie said, giving me a gentle nudge through the door.
“May I help you, Miss?” a woman seated behind a dark, wooden desk asked me without raising her face from her typewriter. Rather, she gazed at me over the top rims of the glasses resting on her sharply angled nose. Her hair was slicked back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the horrible witches found in nursery rhymes. I stiffened as she glared at me.
“Um, I’m Hattie Andrews,” I said and hoped my voice sounded stronger than I felt as I stood before her. Thankfully, Aunt Mittie intervened.
“We are here to see Ms. Jenkins,” said Mittie. “Miss Andrews, my niece, is a new student.”
“Yes, of course,” the secretary said. “Ms. Jenkins has been expecting you.” She rose from her desk and crossed to a closed door on the rear wall. Her skirt, which skimmed her legs just above the ankles, barely shifted at all with each stride. “Wait here,” she commanded, and, after rapping on the door twice, she slipped into the room and silently closed the door behind her. I decided right then that I would always do exactly what she instructed.
“Well,” said Uncle Melvin, “she’s about as icy as they come, huh?”
“Melvin,” Mittie snapped, her voice a low whisper. “Not another word.” Mittie cut her gaze at Uncle Melvin, then she turned to me and pinched my cheeks. She looked into my eyes and smoothed the shoulders of my blouse with her gloved hands. “Now remember, when we meet Ms. Jenkins, stand up straight and look her in the eye. Speak up, but not too loudly. Show her the graceful young lady you are.”
The secretary opened the door and glided out, “Ms. Jenkins will be with you shortly.” She floated back to her desk and, without a sound, sat in her chair. For several moments, the only noise I heard was the sound of her fingers clicking the keys of her black typewriter.
Then, Ms. Helen Jenkins, Headmistress of Thorsby Institute, appeared in the doorway. She looked to be about fifty years old and wore a navy suit with a white blouse buttoned to the base of her neck. Her hair was also slicked back in a low bun. The name Helen suggested a sweet, gentle nature, but her nose was nearly as sharp as the secretary’s nose. I feared all the women of Thorsby carried the same serious countenance.
“I am pleased you arrived safely,
Miss Andrews,” began Ms. Jenkins. She spoke with a low pitch and strong, precise articulation. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, I have no doubt that you will find Thorsby Institute an exemplary and beneficial environment for Miss Andrews. We pride ourselves on producing the finest young men and women in the state of Alabama. Now, if you will follow me.”
Ms. Jenkins turned, left the office, and continued without hesitation down the long hallway. Aunt Mittie gestured for me to keep up with Ms. Jenkins, but her pace, both feet and tongue, made it quite difficult. I must admit that I remember only half of what Ms. Jenkins said on that first day. She had the strangest accent I had ever heard. I was used to the Alabama drawl of slow vowels and forgotten consonants, feminine voices that rose and fell in a delicate rhythm, and male voices that bellowed from church pulpits, but Ms. Jenkins’s voice was unlike anything I had heard. Really, she had no accent. Her words were flat, almost emotionless, except for the select times when she spoke in swift, razor-like tones.
“This is the main academic building. On this floor, you will find four classrooms and the library. At the end of this hallway is the faculty lounge. Students are not permitted to enter the lounge under any circumstances.”
As we hurried past the door, Ms. Jenkins motioned to the library. I tried to peek inside and must have paused too long.
“Miss Andrews, do try to keep up,” said Ms. Jenkins, then opened one of the doors to reveal a well-lit stairway.
The three of us hurried up the stairs behind Ms. Jenkins. I could tell from Aunt Mittie’s pursed lips, that she was having a little trouble climbing the stairs so quickly.
The landing led to another flight of stairs, but we followed Ms. Jenkins into the second floor hallway. The building, nearly deserted on a Saturday, was even quieter on the second floor. The only sounds I heard were Ms. Jenkins’s voice, the rapping of her heels on the wooden floor, and Aunt Mittie’s breathing.
“On this floor, you will find eight classrooms and the ladies’ lavatory. As you have been enrolled in our secretarial curriculum as well as household arts and the social graces, you will spend a large portion of your school day on this floor.”
After a quick glance at the second floor, we were back in the stairwell, climbing the last flight to the third floor. The third floor seemed a little smaller than the others and, according to Ms. Jenkins, contained a laboratory used by the students enrolled in the Teacher’s College, the music room, a small art studio, and one more unidentified classroom. After showing the third floor, Ms. Jenkins turned and descended the three flights of the stairs at a pace rare for a woman of her age. I tucked my chin to my chest so I could see each step clearly and avoid tumbling down the stairs.
“Posture, Miss Andrews, posture,” Ms. Jenkins warned as she turned to witness my last few steps down the stairs.
After the main building, Ms. Jenkins showed us the Congregational Church to the right. The church was used for assembly every Friday morning at 8:30 a.m.
“On the dot,” said Ms. Jenkins. At this point, she reminded me of the student handbook: “Tardiness is not permitted. The church is also used for student organizations and Sunday morning services.”
We left the church and cut across the courtyard behind the main building. The courtyard was artfully designed with stone paths, iron benches, and peach trees. On the far side of the courtyard was the dormitory. A very sturdy woman named Lois Leach, Matron of the Thorsby Institute Dormitory, greeted us.
“Miss Andrews,” Ms. Jenkins said and handed me the folded card she had been carrying, “this is your course schedule. Individual room numbers for each class are included. Ms. Fairbank, the librarian, will issue you textbooks on Monday. I pray that you are a fast learner and devoted student, Miss Andrews. I suggest that you request tutorial sessions from your teachers in order to catch up on the lessons you have missed. You will find the faculty here at Thorsby to be very generous with their time. Now, Ms. Leach will show you to your room and review the dormitory rules and schedule.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jenkins,” I said as I tried to make a mental note of the names, places, and instructions I had just received.
“Well then, welcome to Thorsby Institute, Miss Andrews. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, rest assured your niece is in good hands. Ms. Leach, I leave you to it.” With that, Ms. Jenkins disappeared into the dormitory.
“Hattie, is it?” Ms. Leach asked. Her rosy cheeks plumped around her bright, slightly crooked smile.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered.
“Hattie, your room is on the third floor, eh. Grab your bags and we’ll head up. Mr. Franklin, you’ll wait on the landing, eh. No gents on the ladies’ floor, right.” Every sentence this woman spoke sounded like a question.
The whole way from the dormitory to the truck and back, then all the way up the three flights of stairs to my assigned room, Ms. Leach talked nonstop.
“Thorsby is a gift, eh, a real gift. No place like it,” she said, wheezing between sentences. “I never had the opportunity for such a fine education when I was a girl. So, I hope you don’t squander this opportunity, Miss Hattie Andrews.” She said my name as if she was introducing a delightful storybook character.
“Back home in South Dakota,” she continued, “I dreamt of going to a place like this, but never got the chance, eh. But at least I’m here now. The cold back home was too hard on my respiratory system.” She leaned against the wall of the second floor landing for a moment, causing Aunt Mittie and me to pause, each with a suitcase in our hands.
“Now, where was I?” she asked, blotting her forehead with a handkerchief.
“South Dakota,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Well that was a long time ago,” she dismissed the thought with a wave of her handkerchief. “A few housekeeping matters: Three meals are served per day in the dining hall. Otherwise, stay out of there unless you’re scheduled to work kitchen duty. You’ll rotate shifts with the other household arts students. Secondly, don’t let me catch you trying to sneak back in here after curfew. I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I hear all and see all.”
“You will not have to worry about that,” said Mittie. “Hattie is here for an education, nothing more.”
“Oh, now, we have plenty of social gatherings for the students. That’s part of the education, of course,” said Ms. Leach. “And all of ‘em are properly chaperoned by Ms. Jenkins herself.”
“Of course,” I said.
Using the wooden railing, Ms. Leach practically dragged herself up the last flight of stairs to the third floor, my new home.
“Washrooms are located on the ends,” Ms. Leach said, pointing down the hallway, first right and then left. “I suggest you wake up early to wash up. You don’t want to get caught behind all the other young ladies. Ms. Jenkins does not allow tardiness for any reason.”
“Yes, Ma’am, she mentioned that,” I said.
“Well, here we are,” she said, and opened the door to my room. “Home, sweet, home!” She stepped out of the way so that I could see inside.
I was assigned a room near the center of the hallway. It was one of about twenty rooms on the floor, all occupied according to Ms. Leach. There was a single bed along one wall, a small wardrobe and vanity on the opposite wall, and just enough space to walk between the wardrobe and bed. A modest desk under a bright window finished off the room. I was elated. I had never had my own room before. My own space, I thought and smiled at Aunt Mittie.
“I’ll leave you to it, eh. Go on and get settled. Dinner is at six sharp.”
Ms. Leach smiled again, then headed down the stairs. I heard her chatting away to someone, but couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying.
Aunt Mittie and I unpacked the two suitcases I had brought with me. Aunt Mittie carefully hung my clothes in the wardrobe while I arranged my toiletries on the vanity.
“Hattie, Dear, sit for a minute,” Aunt Mittie said, and patted the bed next to her. “I need to tell you something.”
I sat next to her on th
e thin mattress. She took my hand again, the same way she did in the alley behind the hotel. “This is your chance, Dear, and I don’t want you to spoil it. I expect you to keep up with your studies and do as Ms. Jenkins and the other teachers tell ya to. This is a great opportunity, one your momma and I didn’t get. So, you make her proud. Make me proud.” Mittie kissed my forehead and stood to leave.
Down by the truck, I hugged Aunt Mittie tightly. Uncle Melvin, always hesitant to show any kind of affection, tipped his hat and mumbled something that sounded like “good luck” before hopping behind the wheel. He seemed anxious to get on the road back to Crenshaw. I waved to Aunt Mittie until the truck was out of sight. Then, I mustered up every bit of courage I had and walked back into the dormitory alone.
Chapter 14
January 1935
Thorsby Institute, Thorsby, Alabama
My first weeks at Thorsby passed quickly. The cool days of November and December flew by as I worked to catch up on my classes and adapt to my new academic life. Before I could settle into a routine, Mittie and Melvin sent me a train ticket home for the holidays. I packed the hand-stitched gifts I had made for Meg, Mittie, and the rest of my now-large family in my suitcase, monogrammed linen handkerchiefs for each of them, navy stitches for the boys, mauve stitches for the girls. The gifts were a project for my household arts class and provided my first “A” for the term. With my gifts neatly packed, I rode the L&N by myself from Thorsby to Luverne for the two-week Christmas break.
Right after New Year’s, I took the train back to Thorsby. I had only been back in my dormitory for a few minutes and had just unpacked my suitcase when Ms. Leach started banging on my door. I came back from winter break a day early so I could get settled and hopefully have the library and courtyard to myself for the day. Quiet time to read at Thorsby was as scarce as it was at the hotel, but sneaking down to the kitchen after curfew was strictly prohibited. Judging from the excitement in Ms. Leach’s banging, I wouldn’t find much quiet that day.
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 8
