Diary of a Wildflower (17 page)

What
if I smashed one of those bottles of nail polish all over this nightgown? 
I could say I found it like that in her luggage.  It must have happened on
the trip.  What a shame.

“Lorie,
what are you doing in here?”

I
am so startled I jump and let out a little cry.  “Oh, Mrs. Myles, it’s
you.  I was just…”

She
is scowling at me from the doorway.

“I’m
unpacking Miss Angel’s things for her.  She asked me to.”

Mrs.
Myles’ frown melts into a smile.  “Isn’t that lovely?  And look
there.  You have laid out her nightgown.  You are a fine
lady-in-waiting, Lorie, my dear.  I don’t care what your background is.”

With
that she bounces away and goes about her business.  She doesn’t care what
my background is?  Deflate.  Deflate.  And what was I thinking
to fantasize like that?  I
wasn’t
thinking.  Just
feeling.  But I don’t like Brody in that way.  Do I?  I look at
myself in Angel’s mirror.  There I am in a maid’s uniform.  Just
Lorie, the maid.

********************

When
Angel finally releases me at eleven, I go to my room and begin to pace the
floor while my mind races.  I can’t be still and I know I can’t stay
indoors.  I never before realized that all those treks up and down Starr
Mountain helped me to clear my head, and if it ever needed clearing, tonight’s
the night.  I go outside and there is Dixie on the porch waiting for me.

“Come
on, girl.”

We
begin to walk down the long, oak-lined brick driveway.  There are lamp
posts along the way to light the path.  Dixie walks very close to me, and
I put my hand on her head.  She seems to be in great need of affection, as
I suppose I am too.

“Sweet
Dixie.  My best friend.”

“Where
are you going with Trixie?” someone calls.

“What?”
I turn to see Brody walking a short distance behind us.

“Are
you trying to steal my dog?” he says.

“Of
course not!”

“I’m
teasing, Lorelei,” he says.

We
face each other under the canopy of oaks.

“Roman
teases you, and you laugh,” he says.

Somehow
that sounds a bit petulant, and I don’t know how to respond.

Then
he speaks kindly.  “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? 
No, I just felt like walking.  I’m used to walking a lot.”

“Okay. 
May I walk along?”

“If
you like.”

We
proceed in silence for a few moments before Brody says, “It must have been the
letter.”

“What
letter?  What are you talking about?”

“Roman
told me you got a love letter.  That’s why you’re grummy.”

This
makes me laugh out loud in spite of myself.  “You and Roman are worse than
two nosy old ladies.”

“Hear! 
Hear!” he cries, lifting his hands to the sky.  “Someone dares to call the
heir apparent a nosy old lady!”

Yes! 
Bantering with Brody feels right.

“Nosy
old lady!” I taunt him.  “Nosy old lady!”

He
smiles.  Our arms bump together as we walk.  He is so..oo tall, and
his shoulders are twice as wide as mine.

“Be
that way,” he teases, “and see who likes you when you grow up.”

“Be
what way?”

“Keep
all your secrets to yourself.  You know everything about me, and I know
nothing about you.”

“I’ll
tell you one thing you want to know about me,” I say, “just one.”

“Okay,
where do you get your hooch?”

“From
Marie,” I blurt, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth as we both stop
dead still in the driveway.  I feel my eyes grow wide.  “Oh, my god,
Brody.  Oh, my god.  What have I done?”

“I
don’t know,” he says.  “What have you done?”

“It
was only one bottle, Brody, I swear,” I sputter.  “I know it’s against the
rules, and it’s illegal, and it tasted awful.  And...”  How did those
words slip out of my mouth so easily?  “Why on earth did you ask me that,
Brody?”

“It’s
the customary question these days, but it’s said as a joke.  It’s not supposed
to be taken seriously.”

I
am mortified.  “I’m such a dumb Dora,” I say.  “I don’t know
anything.”

“Don’t
be so hard on yourself,” he says.  “Just tell me about it.”

With
as few words as possible I tell him the story of the blackberry wine.

“Only
one bottle?” he says.

“Yeah,
and did I say how awful it tasted?”

“I
think you did.  But you drank it anyway?”

“Yes,
it was my first night here.  I wanted to fit in.  But now they are
going to hate me.”

“Was
it your first drink of alcohol?”

“Yes! 
My first ever.”

“How
did it make you feel?”

“Not
much of anything.  Maybe a bit goofy.”

“So
those girls have corrupted you?” he says.

“No! 
No, I wouldn’t say that.  I had a choice.”

“Okay,
Lorelei, this is a very serious thing.  We need to talk about it.”

I
am miserable.  We continue our walk in silence.

Finally
he says, “Here’s the deal.  You do one thing for me, and I’ll never tell a
soul what I have learned from you tonight.”

“That’s
blackmail!  What one thing?”

“Tell
this nosy old lady about that boyfriend back home.”

“Brody!”

He
laughs.  “I’m razzing you, sweetheart.”

“You
scared me out of my wits.”

“One
lousy bottle of blackberry wine among five girls?” he says.  “That’s
pathetic.  If you’re going to be a wino, you’ll have to do better than
that.”

“I
envisioned all of us being sacked,” I say, “and it would be my fault.”

“Mother
wouldn’t sack all her maids if you were operating a still in the bathroom,” he
says.  “She couldn’t survive without you.”

“But
she wouldn’t like it a bit if she knew, would she?” I ask.

“No. 
She would fuss, but she wouldn’t do anything about it.  Drinking alcohol
on the premises is not a good idea because it’s illegal, and she wouldn’t want
her employees to get pinched.  But here’s the truth of the matter: 
everybody is breaking the law these days.  Roman and I go to a speakeasy
in Charlottesville.  Mother has dozens of bottles of Romano wine smuggled
in from Italy for her parties.  Dad brings home Scotch and bourbon and
vodka from his trips to New York.  The boys at the university get it only
god knows where, and keep it in the dorms.  Law enforcement has completely
lost control.  Simply put, prohibition is a bad law.  It hurts more
than it helps.”

I
breathe a sigh of relief.  “So you won’t tell on me?”

“I
think we made a deal, didn’t we?” he says.

We
have come to the end of the driveway, where we stop and face each other again.

“The
letter was from my little sister,” I say.

We
smile at each other and start walking back toward the house.

“How
old is she?” he asks.

“She’ll
be fourteen in August.”

“I
lost my little sister in the flu epidemic of 1919,” Brody says.  “Had she
lived, she would be fourteen now.  Her name was Carmela, the same as
Mother’s.”

“That
must have been hard.  How did your mother survive it?”

“We
didn’t think she would.  I’m not sure she’ll ever get over it
completely.  She had visions of grooming Carmela to be a debutante and a
fine lady, but it wasn’t to be.”

I
think of Roxie.  I hear an owl somewhere close by.  He sounds very
lonely.

“I
dreamed it,” he says.

“You
dreamed it?”

“Yes,
I dreamed that Carmela was going to die.  Sometimes I feel guilty because
I didn’t tell Mother.  Maybe….well, anyway, I dreamed it and kept it to
myself.”

We
lapse into silence for a moment.  I don’t know what to say.

“Her
death changed Mother,” Brody finally goes on.  “She used to be
consistently happy and upbeat.  Nothing troubled her for more than an
hour, but these days the smallest disappointment can send her to bed in a deep
depression for a long time.”

We
listen to the night sounds, pet Dixie, kick small stones off the brick.

“Have
you always had precognitive dreams?” I ask.

“Yes,”
he says.  “I don’t always know what they mean, but yes, I’ve always had
them, even as a kid.”  He grins at me.  “Do you think I’m weird?”

“No. 
I’m not a skeptic.”

We
have reached the house.

“Thanks,
Lorelei,” he says.  “You make me feel peaceful.”

“That’s
nice to hear.”

“Do
you mind if I bring up the subject of your hair again?” he says.

“My
hair?  What about it?”

“How
do you get it to sparkle like that?”

“Sparkle?”

“Yes,
in the light, especially sunlight, you can see streaks of gold in it.”

“It’s
the prettiest color for hair there is in the world.  You can see splashes
of gold where the sunlight hits it.”

“Rainwater,
I guess,” I say.

“Rainwater?”

“Yes,
I haven’t caught any rainwater since I’ve been here, but that’s what I
do.  I wash my hair in it, then I dry it in the sunshine.  I’ve
always done that.”

“Rainwater
and sunshine,” he muses.  “The stuff that makes wildflowers grow.”

********************

Later,
when I step out of the bathroom in my robe, I find Dixie waiting for me again,
so I take her into my room to sleep on a rug beside my bed.  Then I set my
wash pan out on the porch to catch the rain that I think will fall
tonight.  I turn out the light, and put my hand on Dixie’s head.

“He
didn’t mention
her
name even once,” I whisper, “and he called me
sweetheart.”

Dixie
sighs contentedly.

“I
forgot to call him
Mister
Brody, but he didn’t correct me,” I say.

Dixie
rolls over and puts all her legs in the air.

“Goodnight,
sweet Dixie girl.  You will share my secrets.  You’re my dog now.”

June 9
^th
– 12
^th
, 1929

I
walk up and down the driveway for the next two nights, hoping to run into Brody
again, but with no luck. 

At
Tuesday lunch, a small group of dashing college men and their pretty
girlfriends are gathered on the terrace.  They are all dressed in riding
clothes, as Brody has invited them to go horseback riding in the
afternoon.  The girls’ jodhpurs look very smart and expensive.  They
use clever slang in making witty comments to one another.  They drink mint
juleps, without the kick, of course – or so I’m told.

Tootsie
is helping me keep their glasses filled.  Marie and Jenny bring out trays
full of sandwiches and petite salads, which are set on a sideboard so the
guests may serve themselves.  The sandwiches are made of ham and chicken
and cut into triangles without any crusts.  The salads are small mounds of
exotic combinations, nestled in beds of spring lettuce on fancy little plates.

When
the guests have settled down to their food, I hear Angel’s childish
voice.  By now I’m used to it.  “Lor…eee.”

I
notice that she has not served herself.

“Yes,
Miss Angel, can I get something for you?” I ask.

The
other guests observe this exchange quietly as they eat, and it occurs to me
that Angel is going to make me serve her to show off the fact that she has a
personal maid.

“Bring
me one of those petite Waldorf salads, Lorie, darling, plee…ze?”

“Of
course.”

I
go to the sideboard and look at the petite salads.  There are four
different kinds left on the tray.  Which one is a Waldorf?  I have
not the faintest idea.

“Isn’t
my Lorie nifty?” I hear Angel say to the guests.  “Mrs. Myles just insisted
that I have her.”

“She’s
your personal maid?” someone says, with no small degree of awe.

“Yes,
for as long as I’m here.  Isn’t it ritzy?  I think it’s so..oo
ritzy.”

Oh,
god, after that spiel she’ll be mortified if I take her the wrong salad.

“What
else would you expect from such a ritzy family?” one of the men says.

Someone
is behind me whispering.  “It’s the one with apples and nuts.”

Brody,
of course.  He opens a drawer in the sideboard and fumbles around inside
it, pretending he has a reason to be here beside me.

I
whisper, “Thanks,” and take the petite Waldorf salad to Angel.

********************

As
Tootsie, Marie, Jenny and I are clearing away lunch, the guests begin talking
about books. 
The Mill on the Floss.  The Mayor of
Casterbridge.  Return of the Native
. 
          

“
Adam
Bede
,” Roman says.  “I couldn’t get through it.”

“I
loved it,” Angel says.  My eyes follow her hand as it lights on Brody’s
arm.

He
turns to her and says, “You had to read a book at that fancy girls’
academy?  I’m surprised.”

“Oh,
you!” Angel says, and gives him a wee swat on the wrist.  “Of course we
read
Adam Bede
.”

“I
think it’s the most tedious thing Thomas Hardy wrote,” Roman says.

“George
Eliot,” I say.

Everybody
looks at me.  Oh, Lord, here I am blurting again.

“Did
you say something, Lorie?” Angel asks.

I
just shake my head.

“I
think she said George Eliot,” one of the girls says.  “And I believe she’s
right.”

“It
was
George Eliot who wrote
Adam Bede
,” Brody says.

“Yes
indeed, it was,” Angel says with a laugh.  “Didn’t I tell you my Lorie is
the bee’s knees!”

“So
you read, do you, Lorie?” Roman asks.

Do
I read?  Now, he sounds like his mother.

“Yes,”
I say.  “I’ve been reading since I was six.”

Everyone
chuckles.

“Besides
Adam Bede
, what have you read?” Roman asks.

I
think about rattling off the titles of books I have read and dearly loved, but
I feel once again like that proverbial bug under a microscope. 

Flustered,
I turn to Angel, “Do you need anything before I go to lunch, Miss Angel?”

“No,
darling, go eat,” she says sweetly.  “You’ve earned it.”

I
flee to the servants’ hall to eat left-over sandwichs and petite salads.

********************

On
my day off Tootsie volunteers to look after Angel for me.  I am walking
into Charlottesville all by myself.  The girls have told me how to get
there by the shortest route.  I wear my yellow dress, and a yellow
barrette in my hair.  First I collect my pay for five days – six dollars
and twenty-five cents!  I am going to buy myself a nightgown, something I
have never owned.  For some reason they were not included in the charity
bags.  Trula theorized that people wear their nightgowns until they are
even too ratty for charity.

It’s
a beautiful day, and I am on the road by ten o’clock.  There isn’t much
traffic, and the few people driving by are friendly.  They wave or tip
their hats.

As
I get closer to town I cut through side streets to get to Three Notch’d Road,
the main street in town.  At the picture show I am disappointed to see
that
Wings
is no longer playing. 
The Divine Woman
starring
Greta Garbo is now on the marquee.  I look at the show times.  Yes, I
will have time to see it before I go home today.

I
stroll along gazing in the windows for awhile.  I pass two women’s
clothing stores before I decide to go into the third one.  The dresses
here are so fancy, I’m almost afraid to touch them.  Hats of all shapes
and sizes.  Women’s trousers and shirts.  Jodhpurs – three dollars a
pair!  That means I probably will not take riding lessons.  Petticoats
that are called slips.  Other very feminine underwear.  Nightgowns
for a dollar each.  I pick one up and inspect it.  Cotton.  Very
practical and cool for summer.  All white.  Yes, I will buy
this.  Then I see the other ones – the ones that feel like silk. 
Maybe they
are
silk.  And here it is – a very pale green, about
knee length, with a low neckline and a tiny satin ribbon through the waist like
a drawstring.  Two and a half dollars!  Yes, two-fifty for this
little piece of fluff.

And
so soft it would almost melt in his hands.

“May
I help you, dear?”

“Yes,
I want to buy this green one,” I hear someone saying – and it’s me!

“In
a small size?” the lady asks with a friendly smile.  Then she holds the
gown up to me.  “Yes, this one looks right.”

I
buy the nightgown, feeling a strange euphoria as I pay two-fifty and watch the
clerk place it inside a white paper bag on which are printed the words
Francie’s
Fashions
.

I
go out of the store in a bit of a trance.  Where now?  I think I will
have a bite to eat at a luncheonette counter.  Afterwards I buy chewing
gum, enough for all the maids to have a pack apiece.

I
see
The Divine Woman
, which is pretty good, but I’m sorry I didn’t get
to see Clara Bow.  Then I start the walk back, clutching the bag with the
nightgown and the gum inside.  I have gone into town alone, seen a picture
show, had lunch, and purchased an expensive item of clothing, all with my own
money that I earned.  I practically skip along the side streets, then find
myself on the open road leading toward the place I now call home, where – I
remind myself – I have my own room.

I’m
not far along the road when the first big crystal drop of rain splashes on my
hand.  I look into the heavens.  How can you up there be this mean
when my day has been so perfect thus far?  A clap of thunder answers
me.  Okay, okay.  I begin to hurry.  It is not quite five
o’clock, but the sky is growing dark.

I
step onto the paved road so I can walk faster.  The rain comes down
harder.  When this happened on Gospel Road I always stopped for shelter at
somebody’s house, even if they were not at home.  But here?  I look
at the big strange faces of the houses.  No, not here.

Suddenly
a car is moving along on the road beside me.  It’s a shiny, black
LaSalle.  Thank God, it’s Chris.  He stops the car.

“Come
on, get in!”

Only
it’s not Chris.  It’s Brody.  I run around the front of the car and
climb in.  He’s alone.  Why isn’t he with Angel this afternoon?

I
am so wet and chilled my teeth are chattering.  He pulls a clean white
handkerchief from his shirt pocket and hands it to me.  I wipe the rain
from my face.

“Why
are you out here walking in a thunder storm?” he inquires.

“I
didn’t know it was going to storm!” I sputter.

He
grins.  “A better question – why are you out here walking on a country
road by yourself?”

“It’s
my day off,” I say.  “Can’t I walk into town on my day off?  The
other girls do it.”

“You
don’t have to walk anywhere, Lorelei.  We have automobiles.”

“
You
have automobiles,” I say.  “I don’t have one myself.”

“Chris
will take you wherever you need to go,” Brody says.  “All you have to do
is ask.”

“Not
so,” I say.  “He is not allowed to take the maids into town on our day off
unless he’s going there anyway.”

“Says
who?” Brody comes back.

“Says
your mother.”

That
shuts him up for a moment.

“You’re
shivering,” he says.

Next
thing I know he has brought the car to a stop, squirmed out of his suit jacket
and is placing it around my shoulders.  It’s dry, and warm from his
body.  I reach for the lapels to pull it closer to me.  In so doing,
my hands brush his.  He eases away from my touch, and moves his right hand
slowly across my hair where it lies on my shoulders.  Then he slides to
his side of the seat again.  The jacket has his smell.  It’s some
sort of men’s cologne with a tough masculine scent, like leather or fresh wood
chips.

The
darkest cloud passes and daylight returns.  The hard rain has let up, and
comes now in softer, kinder drops.

“I
see you went shopping,” Brody says, gesturing toward the bag on my lap.

“Uh-huh.”

“Francie’s
Fashions,” he says.  “Nice store.  Mother shops there sometimes.”

“Yes,
I like it,” I say.

“A
new dress?”

“No.” 
He can see the bag is not big enough to hold a dress.

“Okay,”
he says, and smiles at me.  “I’m not going to be a nosy old lady today.”

I
smile back.

“So…,”
he says, “how many books have you read since you were six?”

“Lots.”

“You
went to highschool?”

“I
did.”

“What
was your favorite subject?”

“Literature.”

“What
have you read?”

I
name some of the authors I studied.

“That’s
impressive,” he says.  “I didn’t read some of those until I went to the
university.”

“I
had a very good teacher,” I say.

“Obviously. 
Who are your favorite authors?”

“Jane
Austen, then Dickens.”

“Dickens
is
my
favorite,” he says.  “What about American contemporary
writers?  Have you read Thornton Wilder, Willa Cather?”

“No,
but I’d like to.”

“What
about Fitzgerald, Hemingway?”

“No,”
I say.  “I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“We
have a library, Lorelei.  You’ve seen it.”

“Yes,
but I didn’t think…”

“What? 
You didn’t think you could borrow books from me?”

“From
you?  Are they your books?”

“They’re
mine as much as anybody’s.  The whole place will be mine someday.”

“So
I’ve heard,” I say.

“Oh,
hey, I didn’t mean to….,” he says.  “Did that sound like bragging?”

“No,
Brody.  You’re not a braggart.”

The
car comes to a stop, and I find we are sitting in front of the slave
quarters.  The rain has quit.

“Let’s
go to the library,” he says.

“Now?”

“Sure. 
Why not now?  I want to lend you some books.”

“Okay!”

“I’ll
put the car away and meet you there in ten minutes,” he says.

I
leave his jacket on the seat then go to my room and take his handkerchief out
of my sleeve where I tucked it earlier.  It’s a soft brushed cream linen
with a fancy silk burgundy monogram stitched into one corner – BLM.  It
also has his smell.  I place the nightgown into a drawer, and fold the
handkerchief inside it.

I
dry off a bit, then go to the main house and enter through the servants’
hall.  No one there.  I go through the kitchen where I find Bridget
and three of the maids up to their elbows in dinner preparations.  From
there I go through the dining room, and slip into the hallway that leads to the
library.  Inside Brody is waiting for me.  He has apparently come
through the front of the house.  When I enter the room, he begins pulling
volumes from the shelves.