Diary of a Wildflower (16 page)

“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.

Thursday, June 6
^th
, 1929

On
my day off the bell over my bed does not ring at daybreak, but I wake up
anyway.  It’s the first time in my memory that I have no plans for the
day, no chores, nobody to look after.  I roll over and go back to
sleep.  At eight o’clock, I can sleep no more, so I get up, slip into the
green dress, and clip one of Mrs. Wayne’s gift barrettes into the left side of
my hair.

Today
I will familiarize myself with the grounds, but first I will eat breakfast and
collect my pay from Louise.  I add it to my stash in the pocket of the
carpet bag.  Then I go in search of the stables and find them far back
from the slave quarters at the edge of a spacious pasture where the horses run
free in fair weather.  Chris is pleased to see me.

“I
was afraid I made a bad impression on you the first day,” he says, “with that
wisecrack about a roommate.”

“Piffle!”
I say, with a wave of my hand to dismiss the subject.  It’s a bit of slang
I picked up from the other girls.  “I thought you might introduce me to
the horses.”

He
calls the horses over to the fence, and lets me feed each one half an apple.

“I’ve
never been on a horse in my life,” I confess.

“You
didn’t have horses on that mountain?”

“No,
we had mules – mean, stubborn, nasty old mules.  But they did the work
required of them.  Dad always said horses are too proud to do the work of
a mule.”

“I’ll
teach you to ride if you like,” he volunteers.

“Is
that allowed?”

“Sure. 
The family rides occasionally, but not nearly as much as they used to do, and
the horses need the exercise.”

“I
might take you up on that one day,” I say.  “But I’ll have to get some
kind of riding breeches, won’t I?”

“They’re
called jodhpurs,” Chris says.  “You can find them in town.”

I
have never worn anything but a dress, and once again, I can hear Dad’s voice in
my head.  “No woman in my house will ever wear men’s clothes.”

Brody
and Roman have taken the LaSalle to Richmond, but Chris takes me to the carport
and shows me the other car, a Model A Ford, which he says is a step up from the
old Model T.

“I’d
like to drive you girls into Charlottesville on your day off, but Mrs. Myles
says I can’t unless I happen to be going there anyway.”

“Is
it too far to walk?” I ask.

“Depends
on how accustomed you are to walking.  It’s close to two miles.  The
other girls do it when they can’t get there any other way.”

“I’m
accustomed to walking for sure,” I say.  “Two miles of level road is
nothing to me.”

I
go to the vegetable patch on the far right side of the house, where Jeff and
Brett are weeding.  They greet me politely.  It’s an impressive
garden, and I walk through it admiring the way it’s laid out, and how well it
is thriving.  They are all smiles at the praise, and seem surprised that I
recognize each vegetable from its leaves.

Next
stop is the flower garden close to the house, where Zack and Mrs. Myles are
clipping roses.  Standing nearby, and apparently in conversation with the
two of  them is a tall, handsome, middle-aged gentleman.  As he turns
to me, I can see his resemblance to Roman.  In fact, he could
be
Roman in his forties.

Assuming
that Mrs. Myles will forget to introduce us, I put out my hand to him. 
“You must be Mr. Myles.  I am Lorelei Starr, sir, the new maid.”

“Pleased
to meet you, Lorelei Starr.  What a romantic name.  It reminds one of
an old Irish or Scottish ballad.”

“Some
of my ancestors were Scotch-Irish,” I say.

“And
how long has your family been in the new world?” he asks.

“Since
the early or mid-seventeen hundreds.”

“Says
you!” says he.  I have learned, again from the other maids, this is a
slang expression of astonishment.

“Yes,
sir.  I don’t know my family history as you know yours, but I do know the
oldest gravestone in the cemetery on Starr Mountain shows a death date of
1778.”

“Why,
that means the Starrs have been here as long as the Myles have!” he exclaims,
as if he finds this possibility incredible.

Mrs.
Myles interrupts our conversation with saying, “Here, Lorie, dear, have a
rose.”

She
is bubbling over with good cheer this morning, the result being that her
Italian accent is more pronounced.  She tucks a rose bud behind my ear, stands
back to see the effect, then turns to her husband.  “Isn’t she as lovely
as a summer’s day, Mr. Myles?”

Before
he can respond, she turns to me again.  “Which reminds me, Brody is
bringing the Angel home with him on Saturday.  I would like for you to be
her personal maid while she’s here.  Make her feel special.”

“You
mean Miss Angela?” I say, “of the Richmond Temples?”

“One
and the same.  Our Brody is going to marry her, you know.  I wanted a
Christmas wedding, but he insists on waiting until June.  I am so excited
and anxious for the union, I don’t

know if I can wait a whole year.  But I suppose I
must.”

My
mind is reeling.  “Do you think I’m experienced enough to be the personal
maid to a girl like Angela Temple?” I ask.

She
laughs gaily.  “Of course!  All you have to do is stay close to her
and do everything she asks of you.  And look pretty, of course.  Did
you know that in the grand European courts the prettiest servant girls were
chosen to be personal maids to the royalty?  It was a great honor.”

Mr.
Myles smiles at me, and rolls his eyes.

“Angel
will be helping us plan our first summer party,” Mrs. Myles goes on. 
“It’s for the purpose of introducing her to Charlottesville society as Brody’s
intended.”

Saturday, June 8
^th
, 1929

I am
dazzled by my first sight of Angela Temple, as I’m sure everybody must
be.  She has just arrived in the LaSalle with Brody and Roman from
Richmond.  She stands on the terrace with a tall glass of iced coca-cola
in her small white hands.  Her dress is a soft blue and white silk which
floats around her pencil-thin body like a mist, barely touching her
knees.  Her hair is blond and bobbed.  Draped across her forehead and
tied in the back, is a narrow sash of the same material as the dress.

She
has finely chiseled features and eyes the bluest of blues.  Her complexion
is an advertisement for Temple’s Cosmetics.  Around her neck and dangling
to her waist is a double strand of beads, also blue and white.  If she
weren’t a person of such high standing in society, she would be considered a
flapper in that outfit, but a very beautiful one.

Brody
is standing beside her, tall, dark and handsome in a classy beige summer
suit. 
Melancholy Baby
is playing on the radio, and for the space
of a heartbeat I feel an unexplained ache in my chest.  Both Brody and
Angel are silent as they watch me approach.

“I’m
Lorie, Miss Temple.  I will be taking care of you during your stay.”

Her
face lights up.  “Lorie!  What a charming little thing you are.”

“I
am to stay near you at all times,” I explain, “except at night, of course, and
attend to you.  Mrs. Myles’s orders.”

“That
is so ritzy!” she gushes, and gives Brody a little nudge.  “Isn’t that
ritzy, Brody?”

“Yeah,”
Brody says, without enthusiasm.  “That’s ritzy.”

“How
old are you, darling?” Angel asks me.

“Sev…uh,
eighteen,” I say.

For
a minute I think I got away with that, and I did with Angel, but not with
Brody.  He gives me a sly smile.  Yes, he caught it.  Now he
knows I have lied about my age.

“For
the moment I am content,” Angel says to me, “and need nothing.  So, AT
EASE!”

These
last two words she barks like a drill sergeant, then laughs at her own little
joke.

I
laugh politely.  “I’ll be right over here.”

I
find a lounge chair close enough that I have a good view of her, but far enough
away that I can’t hear her conversation with Brody.  In my pocket is a
letter from Jewel which I have not been able to open and read since I grabbed
it from my mailbox.  Maybe now is a good time.

Dear
Lorie:

I’m sure
I will hear from you soon, but I couldn’t wait to write and tell you what has
happened.  We have had a shotgun wedding right up here on Starr
Mountain!  I know you will have no trouble figuring out who it was – Opal
and Eddie Johns!  It happened on Sunday, the very day you left on the
train.  We heard about it from Aunt Sue who was called in to
witness.  She said Uncle Ben stood right there beside them with his
shotgun while Eddie Johns quaked in his shoes and said his I do’s.  She
said Opal’s belly is big, and she must be at least five months along.

I think
of you all the time.  The boys miss your cooking awfully bad, but we hope
you like your job. Write!

Love,
Jewel

I
read parts of the letter again.  Opal pregnant and married to Eddie
Johns!  I find myself smiling at the picture Jewel has painted for me, of
Eddie quaking, and Opal standing there with her belly poking out, while Uncle
Ben keeps his gun visible.  The classic shotgun wedding!

“Must
be an amusing letter,” a voice says, and I find Roman standing at my elbow.

I
jump to my feet and stuff the letter back into the pocket of my uniform.

“Do
sit back down, please,” he says, as he takes a chair next to mine.  “You
aren’t needed right now.”

I
look at Angel and Brody who are seated on a glider, talking as they glide back
and forth.  They seem to be tending to each other quite nicely without any
help from me.  I sit down again. 

“From
the boy you left behind?” Roman says.

“What?”

“The
letter you hid in your pocket.  It made you smile.”

I
don’t answer his question.  Let him think what he likes.

“Uh,
oh,” he says.  “Sorry.  None of my beeswax, huh?”

“I
didn’t say that.”

“But
it’s true,” he says.  “I just can’t help it if I have this picture in my head
of some big strapping mountaineer pining away for you.”

“You
mean some fat hillbilly?” I say.

Roman’s
laughter is so uproarious, it brings a smile to my face.

“Ah,
Lorie, you’re copacetic,” he says, as he wipes a tear from his cheek.

“I
don’t know the word,” I say.

“Copacetic? 
It’s the new slang.  It can mean a lot of things – all good.  With
you, it means adorable.”

“And
you are cheeky, Mr. Roman,” I say back.

He
laughs again, and I notice that Brody and Angel are looking at us.

“Lor...eee,”
Angel calls me in a sweet little girl voice.

I
jump to my feet and go to her.

“I
thought of something you can do for me,” she says.  “Would you be a love
and go to my room, and unpack my clothes for me?  Please, please, pretty
please?”

“Of
course.”

I
leave to do Angel’s bidding, but I don’t really know where I’m going.  I
haven’t yet been above stairs in this house.  I go through the ball room
which is so big and empty I can hear the echo of my steps.  I find Tootsie
in the servants’ hall ironing shirts.

“I
have to unpack Miss Angel’s clothes,” I tell her.  “Do you know where her
room is?”

Tootsie
leads me to the old part of the building and up the stairs to the second floor.

“This
is the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Myles,” she informs me as she points to the
first door on the left, “and the other rooms on this floor are guest
bedrooms.  Brody and Roman have the third floor to themselves.”  She
opens the second door on the left.  “Miss Angel is in here.”

For
the next half hour I am lost in a cloud of the softest, most feminine, pinkest
and bluest silks and satins and chiffons ever in the world.  The under
garments slip through my fingers like gossamer.  As I hang each dress on a
velvet hanger, I press my face into the material, just to feel it against my
skin.  Oh, god, will I ever have anything this lovely?

On
the dressing table I set out her bottles and jars of creams and lotions and
perfumes, soaps and bath salts and oils and shampoo, lipsticks and nail polish
and eye paint.  On top of the bureau I spread out her headbands and beads
and rings and brooches and earrings and watches and bracelets.  Apt
trimmings for the kind of girl who will always have more choices than she
really needs – in everything.

Finally
I turn down the coverlet and lay a nightgown across the pillow, so she will
have something handy to slip into when she comes upstairs tonight.  It’s
soft, pink, silky, almost transparent.  I imagine her wearing it.  It
falls across her shoulders and around her little body like feathers. 
Suppose she wears it on her wedding night?  Just suppose.  Brody will
put his big brown hands on her and kiss her throat…no!  No, Brody.  I
feel that ache in my chest again. 
I want it to be me.  I want it
to be me
.