Little Sacrifices (10 page)

‘Mark my words, ladies, things are going to get worse before they get better.’ Foreboding murmurs of assent rippled between the women.

‘What do you mean by worse?’ Ma wanted to know.

‘They’re agitating for more money for their schools.’

‘And they’re already in the police force.’

‘That’s right, there’re a dozen Negroes on the force now. Can you imagine?’

‘Give the niggers an inch and they’ll take a mile.’

‘They need to be put in their place. There’s just no respect any more.’

One of the women whose name I’ve since forgotten lowered her voice a notch. ‘On the subject, Sarah, I have to say I’m surprised you let your girl wear her own clothes today.’

Well whose clothes did she expect me to wear? Ma made a similarly surprised response but caught on quicker.

‘She really should be in a uniform,’ the lady continued.

‘Surely all maids don’t wear uniforms?’ When Dora Lee first turned up, Ma was distressed to see her in the costume and told her there was no need to look the part of a servant. She was an employee, no different from Duncan at the school. A uniform wasn’t necessary.

‘Certainly they do, at least when there are guests to serve. You can’t have them wearing their everyday clothes in the house, otherwise they start getting airs. A uniform makes sure they know their place.’

‘After all, you can’t have them thinking they’re one of the guests.’

‘Well she’s a Negro so clearly she’s not a guest!’

‘Now don’t be silly!’

Dora Lee patiently held a tray of steaming little meat pies out for the ladies. She seemed not to hear anything at all. Everyone laughed gaily. My face flushed hot. You tell ’em Ma, I thought. Give ’em what for.

Ma’s voice barely rose above a whisper. ‘Well, I guess I’ll look into getting a uniform.’

Our neighbor ladies weren’t quite finished worrying their topic. ‘You can’t let her unlearn her ways, Sarah. When Missus Reynolds had her, she ruled this house with an iron fist. To tell the truth she was uncommonly strict considering what a nice woman she was.’

Ma’s voice sprang back to its normal shape, no doubt bolstered by the prospect of less controversial topics. ‘Oh? Did you know her well?’

‘My yes! She was such a lovely lady. But so sad, to have lived alone her whole life after... Well I can tell you it would have beaten a weaker woman. And to have died so suddenly. But then–’ Our neighbor looked our way. ‘Little pitchers have big ears. Anyway, I can let you know where to get your uniforms if you’d like.’

I was ready to jump to Dora Lee’s defense, but Ma’s expression stopped me. She looked happier than I’d seen her for months.

Over an hour after the party started I opened the door to three very wet, very smiling girls.

‘We are
so
sorry–’

‘We’re late–’

‘Terrible weather–’

‘but we’re finally here–’

‘Held us up.’

‘Can you forgive us?’

Could I! I took their sodden coats and invited them in. Introductions were made to the ladies, sherbet punch was ladled and Ma suggested a game of Monopoly to get us out of the living room.

Ceecee declared herself the banker on account of her father running Liberty National. There were no positions specific to captains of industry, teachers or police chiefs so the rest of us consoled ourselves with our favorite pewter pieces and the game began. We chatted amiably, the girls and I, while Jim and Fie kept mum. Anyone could see they were uncomfortable. So help me, I didn’t care. My two social circles were like islands sharing the same sea and I was willing to tread water between them. I was tired of being an outsider, I thought, letting my reasoning pull me towards uncharitable opinions. In Williamstown, I wouldn’t have been friends with Jim and Fie. I knew kids like them. They were the ones we made fun of. I sometimes wonder why they stuck by me like they did. They were, on the whole, much better friends than I.

‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear May, happy birthday to you!’ I filled my lungs and blew out the candles. What did I wish for? That this was the start of my meteoric rise to popularity.

Ma outdid herself. Her newfound love of agriculture made its mark in sugary icing. She’d sculpted a Garden of Eden on my birthday cake. Duncan gave me an awkward squeeze from behind my chair. Smiling faces lined our table. Ma cut the first slice for me, with a rose and two leaves perfectly formed on top. It was delicious.

When it came time to open presents I hemmed and hawed over the lovely wrappings, my face reddening the more everyone watched me. Fie wriggled like a puppy when she handed me her gift. She’d picked out a chiffon scarf in tangerine. ‘It’s perfect!’ I cried, trying to think what other color under the sun looked nice with orange. Minty, Ceecee and Charlene opted for a joint gift, a sterling silver frame with a picture of themselves gracing the glass. ‘How perfect,’ muttered Jim, but the irony was lost on the girls, who shone with pride at their own generosity.

The adults’ packages were all thoughtfully innocuous and I thanked them in turn. Missus Welles’ rose–scented package turned out to be very grown–up French soaps. Jim’s present, a journal covered in soft brown leather, was second to last. ‘Jim, thank you, it’s beautiful.’ And I meant it. I’d never kept a journal before. Jim thought it a good time to start. He smiled a little smugly. I knew he was thinking of our conversation about Mirabelle’s privacy.

Ma pulled the last package, wrapped in brown postal paper, from behind the big chair. Lottie’s sweet sixteen gift. I opened the flat box carefully. In it was a framed photo. We had our arms around each other and were grinning into the camera. It was taken at our class picnic to celebrate graduation. We’d just finished devouring half a watermelon and were about to go swimming. I knew better than to ask Ma to use the phone in normal circumstances. Unless someone was dead or celebrating Christmas, long distance calls were not to be reckoned on. ‘Can I?’

‘Okay. Give her a call.’

My voice hitched as I excused myself and made a dash for the phone.

‘Two minutes! That’s all!’ Duncan reminded me.

For Ma, the party was a success. Everyone was enthusiastic when they said good bye and thanked her for such a nice time. They held her hand while they promised to relinquish that receipt (Savannah’s peculiar expression for recipes) or extend that invitation for lunch. Her relief at finally having some potential friends showed on her face. But the price she paid for her success seemed awfully high. Anger stirred my thoughts, not because she didn’t put our guests in their places, but because for fifteen years she’d made me think her beliefs were absolute. My mother’s fallibility was a sad realization, and I blamed her for disappointing me. I recognized the hypocrisy in my feelings. I did everything I could to convince her not to make trouble for us. Sometimes I didn’t even stand up for what I knew was right. But she was my parent. I held her to higher standards.

Chapter 14

Dora Lee was real good about my newfound status as a young adult. She still called me ‘miss’, I never did get her to use my first name, but she peppered our talks with lots of now–that–you’re–grown–ups. To my continual irritation, Ma and Duncan acted pretty much the same as they always had, as if I hadn’t passed an important milestone that automatically conferred certain privileges. But they sat up and took notice when I told them I was taking my first job.

My birthday party turned out to be a currency with a lot of spending power. Not long afterwards, Minty made a beeline for our lunch table. Ignoring Fie and Jim as usual, she suggested that I might like to volunteer with her to read to the old ladies at the Abrams Home. Since charity work fell solidly into the realm of adult responsibility, I said sure. After school on Wednesdays? Perfect.

I made the mistake of thinking the girls were volunteering out of the goodness of their hearts. They set me straight the first time I said as much. They were on their way to becoming debutantes, and charity work was one of the requirements. I was starting to learn a little bit about ‘coming out’, in the nineteen forties sense of the phrase. It was a tradition rooted in the cities where old families congregated, a custom carried over from England where parties were held to stamp approval upon Britain’s society daughters. One of the best–known soirees there was thrown to raise money for Queen Charlotte’s Maternity Hospital. Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball was eventually even more popular than being presented to the Queen at court. Each year in London’s Grosvenor House, virginally–adorned debutantes kicked off the husband–hunting season by curtsying to an enormous birthday cake. All over the United States similar traditions were carried on, though generally without genuflecting to a pastry. My curiosity was welcomed by the girls, who were no doubt pleased to have an outsider’s ear to bend for a change.

Savannah’s coming out season lasted from the first Savannah Morning News announcement on Mother’s Day to the last party on New Years Eve. In between, the paper’s Nobody’s Business column buzzed with the escapades of Savannah’s finest flowers. The main event was the Cotillion in December, when whole batches of debs were presented to the society that spawned them. They undertook years of training, Ceecee told me, to get ready for the big party when they were around twenty. I could just imagine. Drinking tea with pinkies extended just so. The fine art of the curtsy. How to deal a hand of pinochle without spilling their mint juleps. I asked.

‘Well I started dance instruction at, let’s see, about eleven I guess,’ Ceecee said. ‘It’s every week on Tuesdays after school.’

Her answer was more serious than my sense of humor hoped for. She was, in general, a sober girl. ‘You must be a great dancer by now.’

She laughed graciously, no doubt having learned that in training too. ‘It’s a lot more than just dancing. There’re all the little rituals that go with it. Like how to accept a dance. Or more importantly, to decline it! The boys have to learn how to ask.’

So that was how they came by their Southern charm. ‘What else?’

She warmed to her subject once assured of my attention. ‘Really just about everything we do is to prepare us for when we’re in society. The teas Mama hosts, dinners and the like. They all teach us how to behave in polite company. And, of course, we have formal etiquette classes so we know how to do all the little things that are expected of us. Like thank you notes and eating with the right fork. Who to talk to first at dinner. All the normal stuff.’ I nodded thoughtfully. I knew without having to ask that the balls were Jim Crow affairs. Dora Lee would tell me later that her parallel universe stretched even to coming out. There was a black debutante ball where the same qualities were demanded and demonstrated, the same fun was had and the same pride ran amok.

‘Let me ask you something. Do you really believe in all this?’

Her expression turned guarded. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the debutante balls, the whole thing. Everything you’re meant to do, or not do. Like, you’re not supposed to date before your coming out, right?’

She gave a snort. ‘Oh please, May! We’re not in the eighteen hundreds! It’s all part of the tradition, that’s all. It’s our family’s heritage. Everyone does it and when the time comes my daughters’ll do the same. It’s a lot of work and worry, but it’s all worth it in the end.’

Ceecee was much more traditional at heart than either Charlene or Minty who, I had the impression, went through motions without always buying into them. Ceecee reveled in their way of life and was proud to be a genteel Southerner. Even so, she was the most level–headed of the bunch, and I liked her for that.

‘But why? What do you get out of it?’

‘Get out of it? You can’t think about it that way. It’s just something we do. We’ve always done. In the old days it was to let everyone know that the girl was ready to be courted. Nowadays we’re ready for that long before we have our parties!  A lot of the debutantes even take their boyfriends as one of their escorts. My mother did. And then she married him. I guess mostly we get the knowledge that we’re following in our family’s traditions. Besides, the parties are wonderfully fun!’

I was relieved to know my friends weren’t pining for antebellum days. It didn’t sound so bad. Who couldn’t stand to brush up on their manners?

Not realizing that coming–out balls were a class phenomenon rather than a geographic peculiarity, I made the mistake of telling Ma about them.

‘May. Debutantes aren’t girls to emulate. They’re girls to feel sorry for, if anything.’

‘I just said it’d be neat to have my own ball.’

‘Well it certainly would not. It’s nothing but an elitist custom aimed at continuing a way of life where women are just showpieces for their men. I taught you better than that.’

‘Well, judging by the girls’ mothers, that sounds like a great job!’ My laughter died in my throat when she glared at me.

‘Jesus, May.’

‘Ma, don’t curse.’

‘I’m ashamed of you.’

‘You’re always ashamed of me.’ I didn’t bother saying the feeling was mutual. Time had taught me the futility of debating with Ma over anything on the subject of equality. They were still going to let me volunteer and that was the main thing.

It sounded like an easy enough job. I liked to read, and the folks in the home were waiting to be read to. I was assigned to Missus Robinson, or she to me. Abrams Home housed the Widows Society of Savannah. That, I thought as I walked up the drive, was one club no one joined by choice. The place was full of old women in need of care. It had a nice atmosphere, with bright rooms and little suites off narrow hallways. I said goodbye to the girls and we each went to our appointed chambers. My knock was answered with a bark. ‘Go away!’

‘Missus Robinson? Ma’am, it’s May Powell. I’m here to read to you.’ I peered around the door.

‘Don’t you think I can read for myself? I’m not senile you know!’ She had quite a set of lungs for such an old lady.

‘No, ma’am. It’s just that Missus Scott thought it’d be nice for me to come read to you for a while.’