Diary of a Wildflower (19 page)

“Don’t
mister
  me.  I’m just Roman.”

“Okay,
just Roman.”

“Have
you ever been to a juice joint, Lorie?”

“A
what?”

“A
juice joint.  A speakeasy.”

“Heavens
no!” I say. 

He
laughs.  “Why do you say it like that?”

“They’re
illegal,” I say.  “I don’t want to get pinched.”

“If
I guarantee you won’t get pinched, will you go with me?” he says.

This
is unexpected, and throws me off my game considerably.

“I
don’t know,” I say.

“It’s
fun, Lorie.  There’s a bit of giggle water and lots of music.”

“A
bit
of giggle water?” I say with a laugh.

He
grins.  “Just enough to put you in the mood for dancing.”

“I
can’t dance,” I say.

“I
bet you’d like to learn,” he says.

I
look up into his flirtatious eyes.  Yes, he is handsome.  Yes, he is
charming.

“You
would teach me to dance?” I say.

“I
would love to teach you to dance,” he replies.

“Let
me think about it,” I say.

“Well,
think fast.  I’m going tonight.”

We
have reached the mailbox, and Roman stuffs the outgoing mail into it.

The
prospect of going out with Roman – having him teach me to dance, maybe sip a
tiny bit of illegal wine – is exciting.  So why do I feel uneasy?

We
start walking back toward the house.

“Of
all those pretty girls you were dancing with at the party,” I ask, “there’s not
one you want to ask?”

“You
were the prettiest girl there,” he says.

“Piffle!”
I say.  “You must have over-indulged from the blue glass.”

He
laughs.

“What
about your parents, Roman?”

“Oh,
they don’t want to go,” he says.

“You
know what I mean.  How will they feel about your going around town with
one of the maids?”

“They
won’t like it.  We’ll have to sneak out.”

Sneak?

“I
don’t think so, Roman.  But thanks.  I’m flattered that you asked
me.”

“Oh,
I see how it is,” he says.  “There really is some lucky fella back home?”

Does
he think that’s the only reason a girl would turn him down?  I just
smile.  Let him think what he wants.

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

I
lie awake in the wee hours.  I have managed to get some of the images of
the party out of my head, but tonight, as I try to sleep, they come again in sudden
flashes, like somebody jumping out from behind a tree to startle me.

He
is with her.  He is with her.

I
get up in the dark, open the dresser drawer and take out the green, silk
nightgown and Brody’s handkerchief.  I take everything off and slip into
the gown.  It is cool and ever-so-soft against my body.  I go back to
bed and push my face into the handkerchief.  His smell in the handkerchief
and the softness of the nightgown on my naked skin together bring back that
afternoon with him in the rain, and his hand barely touching my hair, as it
floated across my back.

Twenty

Wednesday, June 19
^th
, 1929

“Louise
needs you upstairs,” Ellie says to me mid-morning.  “It’s linen day. 
We have to change all the sheets.”

On
the second floor Louise tells me she has stripped the beds, and now she needs
me to go up to the third floor with Marie to put on the clean sheets.

“I’ll
take Roman’s and you take Brody’s,” Marie says when we reach the third
floor.  She points to a door.  “That one.”

So
this is Brody’s room.  It’s very large, clean and sparsely
decorated.  His bed is brass and at the moment stripped of all linens down
to the feather tick.  There is a cream sofa in one corner, a burgundy easy
chair in another, a radio in a mahogany cabinet, a chest of drawers, a desk, a
dresser, and a night stand.  There is not one picture of Angel, nor of
anybody else.

There
is a stack of textbooks on his desk.  I glance through them. 
Law.  Literature.  Sociology.  More literature.  I go to
the window and look out.  He has a clear view of the back of the slave
quarters.  One, two, three, there is my window.

I
spread the clean bottom sheet across Brody’s bed.  I lovingly smooth out
the wrinkles and tuck in the edges until it is taut.  I spread the top
sheet and encase the pillows.  No yellow ducks on these pillow
cases.  They are elegantly monogrammed BLM.

I
could
go through his closet and all his drawers.  I
could
see what he squirrels away, what he treasures and hides from the world. 
But I won’t do that.  Not I.

Maybe
just his nightstand drawer?  What does he keep by his bedside to look at
before he goes to sleep?  A Bible?  No.  A picture of a naked
woman?  A picture of Angel?  Or a letter from her?  I would have
to be very quick, because Marie could walk in at any moment.

I
glance at the door, then furtively open the drawer beside Brody’s bed. 
Cream-colored stationery with the BLM embossment.  A fountain pen.  A
pair of nail clippers.  A tin of aspirin.  A pack of gum.  A
book –
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
.  I pick it up.  Thornton
Wilder.  He has almost finished it.  His place is marked with a
pocket calendar.  June, 1929.  University of Virginia.  A date
is checked, then another one.  One, two, three, four, five, check. 
One, two, three, four, five, check – my days off?  Yes!  He has
checked
my days off!

Carefully,
I place the calendar back inside the book on the right page.  Then I
replace the book, and continue making the bed.  My cheeks feel like they
will burst into flame.  I have to look again.  I have to make
sure.  I pull the drawer open and take out the calendar.  Yes, I am
sure of it.  He has checked my days off for the month of June.  I put
it all back and close the drawer.

I
spread out the coverlet on top of the clean sheets, and smooth it into
place.  What a beauty.  Burgundy and cream – so tasteful, so
Myles.  I take another look around the room and leave, feeling strangely
buoyant, as if I might levitate at any moment.

Sunday, June 23rd, 1929

I
am awakened deep in the night by muffled voices.  I lift my head to listen. 
Dixie stirs.  The noise is coming from number two – Tootsie’s room. 
It sounds like an argument.  A man’s raised voice, then a woman’s.  I
can’t hear the words.  Her secret lover must be in her room.  God,
Tootsie, this is not a good idea.  Then all is quiet.

For
the first time I find myself curious about Tootsie’s beau.  Would he be
somebody here on the premises?  Chris?  But why would they keep it a
secret?  Not Jeff or Brett.  They are too old.  And Zack is
married to Louise.  It must be somebody from outside.  I am almost
asleep again when a thought jolts me awake.

“No,
Dixie,” I whisper.  “No, it
couldn’t
be Brody.  He’s in
Richmond.  Roman?  Maybe.  But not Brody.”

Monday, June 24
^th
, 1929

It’s
my day off, and I get up at eight and go to breakfast.  As I am about to
enter the servants’ hall, I overhear voices again, this time from the rose
garden which is right around the corner.  I stop and listen.  I hear
Mrs. Myles…then…is it Brody?  Yes!  I know it’s Brody.  He has
come back four days early.

His
mother is saying, “So did you have a row with Angel or what?”

“No,
Mother,” he answers.  “I just wanted to get back.  I have things to
do.”

“What
do you have to do that’s more important than Angel?”

Brody
doesn’t answer.

“You
came in like a thief in the night,” she goes on.  “It frightened me.”

He
arrived in the night?  No!  It was not Brody in Tootsie’s room. 

“I’m
sorry, Mother,” he says.  “I’ll call next time.”

“I
just don’t understand you at all,” she complains.  “Sometimes I think you
don’t really want to marry that lovely girl.”

Her
words hang in the air like a bad odor.

“Did
you look for an engagement ring in Richmond?” she inquires.  “They have
some ritzy jewelry stores.”

An
engagement ring?  This has never crossed my mind.  Why doesn’t Angel
have a big fat diamond on her finger to flash around?

He
still says nothing. 

“Well? 
Answer me!” Mrs. Myles demands.

“No,
Mother.  I did not go shopping in Richmond,” he says.

“Well,
I want to know when you are going to give Angel an engagement ring.”

“When
you stop pestering me about it!” he cries.

At
this point I know he is in a dither, and I’m afraid he will come stomping
around the corner, so I hurry into the servants’ hall.  Once I have served
myself breakfast and settled down to the table I find I can’t eat at all. 
And I can’t concentrate on what others around me are saying.  Finally, I
collect my pay, and leave.  Outside, I don’t see or hear Brody.  I
hurry back to my room.

I
slip into the blue kneeduster that Dad told me never to wear again.  It’s
the most daring of my three dresses.  I study my image in the
mirror.  When I last wore this dress a year ago, I didn’t have the benefit
of a full mirror, but I do believe I fill it out better than I did then. 
He will like me in this dress even more than Eddie Johns did.

I
slide my feet into the white high heels.  Then I brush my hair until it
crackles, and clip a blue barrette onto one side.  I pinch my cheeks and
bite my lips to make them pink.  I tuck some money into a small pocket in
my dress and step outside.

He
is not here yet, but Dixie is.  I pet her for a few minutes, then start
walking very slowly toward the stables.  Dixie trots along beside
me.  In a few minutes I hear Brody behind us.

“Good
morning!  Where you headed?”

“Oh!”
I exclaim, as if I’m surprised to see him.  “I thought you were in
Richmond.”

“Came
back last night.”

As
he approaches me, his eyes quickly take me in from head to toe.  Yes, he
does
like me in this dress.  As for his appearance, he looks like an
illustration for a magazine article on the most stylish young men of the
season.  He is wearing a slate blue summer suit and a blue shirt with his
tie casually loosened below an open collar.  On his head sits a smart
skimmer with a blue band.

He
bends over to pet Dixie.  Then he stands and smiles down at me.  His
eyes are gentle, and give no hint of the quarrel he just had with his
mother.  He has recently shaved, and there is one tiny nick on his chin.
 Otherwise his face is so smooth and brown and tight, I want to run my
hand over it.  His hair is damp and clings to his forehead.

I
say, “I’m on my way to ask Chris to take me into town.  I understand the
rules have changed.  Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I
did.  I told Mother that when our employees have to walk into town, it
makes us look cheap.  Mother does not like to look cheap.”

We
walk together.

“I’m
going to the univeristy to see one of my professors,” he says.  “Can I
drop you off in town?”

“Sure,
if it’s not out of your way.”

“Not
a bit.”

“Then
I’ll ask Chris to pick me up at five,” I say.

“No,
don’t do that.  I’ll pick you up.”

We
don’t look at each other during this exchange.

“Going
shopping again?” he asks.

“Yes,
I’m in the market for a pair of jodhpurs.”  I say this even though I don’t
expect I will actually buy jodhpurs, unless I can find a pair for less than
three dollars.  “I’m going to take riding lessons.”

“Oh? 
Who’s teaching you?”

“Chris.”

He
stops and looks down at me again.  “Chris!  I could teach you. 
I didn’t know you wanted to learn.”

“I
didn’t plan to, but, well, Chris volunteered.”

“Of
course he did,” Brody mutters.

We
reach the automobile port, and I wait while he backs the LaSalle out.  I
tell Dixie to go home and wait for me.  She stands there cocking her head
from side to side.  I promise her that I will take her for a walk when I
return.  At that moment Chris comes out of the stable and throws up a hand
to me.

“Hello,”
I say.  “Will you hold on to Dixie until I’m gone?  I don’t want her
following us.”

“Sure
thing,” Chris says, and calls Dixie.  She goes to him obediently.

I
climb into the car with Brody.  I wave to Chris and Dixie as we drive
away.  I can feel both of them watching us as we leave.

As
we move onto the open road, Brody asks, “Have you read Gatsby?”

“Yes,
I have.”

“And
what do you think of it?”

“I
think I don’t like Daisy Buchanan.”

He
laughs.  “Nobody likes Daisy Buchanan.” 

The
last thing I want right now is to be dropped off in town.  I would so much
rather stay with Brody.

As
if reading my mind, he says, “Have you ever seen the University of Virginia?”

“No,
never have.”

“What
about Monticello?  You know, the home of Thomas Jefferson?”

“I
know what Monticello is,” I say.

“Sorry. 
Of course you do.  Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Would
you like to?”

“Yes.”

“And
the university too?”

“Yes,
I would love to see them both.”

“Well,
can those jodhpurs wait?”

“I
suppose so.”

“Good!”
he says, and gives me a big grin.  “Let’s go!”

As
we drive past the picture show, we check the marquee to see what’s
playing.  It’s
Ladies of the Mob
starring Clara Bow.

“Have
you seen that one?” Brody asks.

“No,
have you?”

“No. 
Do you like the
It
girl?”

“I
haven’t seen her yet.”  I won’t tell him that I’ve seen only three picture
shows in my life.

He
looks at his watch.  “We may get back in time to catch it.”

Yes!

Then
we have a lively debate on
The Great Gatsby
.

“I’m
impressed,” he says, when I score a point.

“What! 
You didn’t think this girl from nowhere could do critical analysis?”

“Not
with such insight,” he admits.  “Wanna read
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
next?”

“Sure. 
Thornton Wilder, right?”

“Yes. 
I finished it off when I got home last night.  I’ll be curious to see what
you think of it.”

Playing
tour guide for me at Monticello, Brody is as excited as a boy, pointing out
Jefferson’s clever inventions and giving me the history of this and that. 
He often touches my arm as he makes a point, or he places a hand on my back to
guide me from one spot to another.

Afterwards
we go to the university and I have my first glimpse of the much celebrated
Rotunda.  To me everything is breathtakingly beautiful.  My
experience with places like this has been only through pictures and
descriptions in books.  I can see how much Brody loves the academic
environment, the history, the tradition.

“Let’s
sit here for a moment,” he says when we come to a low wall on The Lawn. 
“And just look at it.”

As
we sit and “just look at it”, he gives me tidbits of information about famous
people who have attended the school – Edgar Allan Poe, Walter Reed, Woodrow
Wilson.  He tells me about his favorite professors, his least favorite
professors, his friends.  He talks a little about his courses of study,
the classes he has loved and the classes he has hated.

Then
out of the blue he says, “I finally told Mother and Father.”

“Told
them what?”

“That
I am going to study to become a literature professor instead of finishing law
school.”