Diary of a Wildflower (14 page)

On
Friday I make a special trip to Call’s to pick up the mail.  I find a
small package from Dr. and Mrs. Wayne.  Inside is a set of four striking
barrettes for my hair, each a different color.  Mrs. Wayne encloses a note
sending her best wishes.  She asks me to pass along a message to her
friend, Mrs. Myles.  I am to tell her that Blake and Lydia Wayne certainly
do miss her wonderful parties.

Dr.
Wayne’s note says it gives him pleasure to at last be able to help that sad
little girl who once begged him to take her away from here.  Trula’s
letter says she and Mack will pick me up at eight a.m. on Sunday morning on
Gospel Road, and drive me to the train station in Granger.

At
home I lay aside the new dress, hat, heels and silk stockings to wear on the
train, and begin choosing what I will take to Charlottesville.  I have a
lifetime to drag along with me, and yet there is so little to pack.  The
first items to go into the new carpet bag are a pair of every day shoes and
sturdy stockings.  Next goes the short blue dress and a yellow summer
dress which also came out of the charity bag, but is decent enough.  I
pack my underwear, the bluebell brush and mirror which are battered and bruised
with years of use, the fancy hair barrettes, Jewel’s portrait of Roxie and one
of Samuel, my highschool diploma, a fountain pen and stationery.

Even
after shopping in Skylark, I still have the tidy sum of fifteen dollars which I
tuck securely into an inside pocket of my bag.  The train ticket will be
two dollars.  Last, but most important I pack a tiny doll made of cloth,
and stuffed with goose feathers, with embroidered eyes, nose and mouth, and
hair made of fur from an old coat.  It’s Beth Ann – Roxie’s gift to me on
that long-ago Christmas.  Barely holding together after all these years,
she’s still the prettiest doll I ever had.  She’s the onliest doll I ever
had.

Sunday, June 2
^nd
, 1929
        
                                   

Bea
has made a big breakfast, but I have difficulty swallowing.  I finally lay
aside my fork, and give her a hug and each one of the boys a kiss on the cheek.

Then
I turn to Dad and say, “I’m leaving now, Dad, so this is goodbye.”

He
lifts his coffee cup to his lips and slurps without looking at me, or
acknowledging that I have spoken.

I
put on a pair of old shoes for my walk down Willy’s Road to Gospel Road. 
Samuel and Jewel go with me. 

“Whatever
you do,” Samuel says to me, “have a good time.  You never had a chance to
be a little girl.  You never had time to play.”

“I
played games at school,” I say.

“You
had too many responsibilities for a child.  So when you’re not working,
remember it’s time to have fun.”

At
the car I kiss Samuel and Jewel and tell them to take care of each other. 
Then I change into the white heels, hand the old shoes to Samuel to carry back
home, and leave the two of them standing there in the road with their arms
around each other, both crying.

We
are running late, and the train station is on the edge of Granger, so I barely
see the town.  It’s the county seat, and yet in all these years I have
never seen it.  At the station I give Trula, Mack and the boys a hasty
farewell, and the next thing I know I am on the train and it is moving.  I
am on my way to Charlottesville, more than half way across this wide
state.  I have to pinch myself.  I am on a train.  This is not a
dream.  I am on a train.

I
look at the other passengers.  They are well-dressed, but no better than I
am.  My car is not full, so I have a seat to myself.  I sit watching
the green landscape go by.  Small towns, large towns, coal yards, freight
yards, loading docks, tracks going in all directions.  Yes, I am really on
a train.  The mountains fall behind me.  At one station I see three
dark-skinned people climbing into another car on my train.  It’s my first
sight ever of colored folks.

Hours
into the day I eat the sandwich Bea has prepared for me.  Then I look
toward the east and think about the people I am going to meet.  I know
nothing about them except they are rich and they have just returned from Italy
and they throw a lot of parties.

I
don’t know what time I will get to bed tonight, so maybe I should try to
nap.  I rest my head on the back of the seat and close my eyes.  A
woman across the aisle from me is eating strawberries.  I can smell them.

I
am in that lucid place between waking and sleeping.

A
sweet wind moves across the mountaintop, and I can smell strawberries in
it.  They are ripe out there near the pasture.  I sit in the new
grass, feeling apart from my body.  It is a funny way to feel.  I
know every moment what will come next.  Just for a split second before it
happens, I know what's coming.  I am watching me from the outside of
myself.  Now Lorelei is going to put her hand there on the grass.  It
all took place this same way before.  There is a cardinal going to light
on that branch yonder, and he does it.

Here
I see Roxie leaning out the window of our sleeping loft, with her golden hair
hanging down like Rapunzel’s.  She calls to me in in her pretty little
voice to go in the kitchen and fetch a bucket.  She says we have to pick
the strawberries before the birds steal’em all.  Yes, it was like this
once before.  But when?

I
go into the kitchen and Mommie is there like the other time.  Only now I
am as tall as she is.  This time she takes the bread out of the oven and
looks at me with sad soft eyes and her face has that peaceful look it wore the
moment she left her body.

I
go to her and put my arms around her.  She puts her arms around me.

We
hold each other for a long time. 

Sunday evening, June 2
^nd
, 1929

With
more than a dozen stops across the state, my train arrives in Charlottesville
around six-thirty.  On the station platform a young man dressed in
knickers and a newsboy cap, is holding a small sign that reads
L. Starr
.

“I’m
Lorelei Starr, sir.  Are you here for me?”

“You’re
the new maid?”

“Yes,
sir.”

He
smiles and tips his hat.

“Are
you one of the Myles?” I ask him.

“No. 
I’m just another servant.  I look after the horses and the cars.  My
name is Chris.  Where are your things?”

I
clutch my carpet bag to my waist with both hands.  “This is it, sir.”

“You
don’t have to call me sir.  Chris will do.”  He throws the cardboard
sign in the gutter and says, “This way.”

We
walk up a short flight of stairs and onto a paved street.  Here I am
bombarded with sounds and sights and new sensations.  Rapidly moving
cars.  All kinds of stores.  Gigantic advertising signs.  Girls
in short dresses and short hair.  I’m dying to stop and gape at
everything, but I don’t want to embarrass myself first thing on arrival.

Chris
points to a shiny black automobile with the top open.  “It’s the black
breezer there.”

He
takes my carpet bag and tosses it into the back seat.  Then he opens the
passenger door of the car and motions that I should step in.  Which I
do.  He gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“Nice
automobile,” I say.

“Yeah,
it’s a brand new LaSalle Coupe.  The cat’s meow.”

The
cat’s meow?  I must remember that one.

“We’re
lucky to get it today,” Chris says.  “I hardly ever see it when the boys
are home from school.”

“What
boys?”

“Brody
and Roman – or
Mr
. Brody and
Mr
. Roman to you and me.  The
Myles’s sons.  They’re home from school for the summer.”

Chris
turns around in the middle of the street and heads through the business
district.

“And
do the Myles have other children?” I ask.

“No,
just the two boys.”

I’ve
never seen a trolley before, but I know that thing over there must be
one.  And there’s a real pawn shop.  A gas station.  A
pharmacy.  A clothing store.  A food store.  And a motion
picture theater. 
Wings 
starring Clara Bow is playing. 
I would love to see that!

But
back to the moment.  Brody and Roman.  I must remember their names.

“How
old are they?”

Chris
laughs.  I am puzzled.  Was that funny?

“Husband
shopping, are you?” he says.

Oh,
so that’s what he thinks.  How should I respond?

“All
the girls like Brody and Roman,” he goes on.  “And they
are
handsome
rascals.  I’ll give’em that.  But rich and spoiled.  And they’ll
marry rich.  You can count on it.  Anyway, to your question, Roman is
two years older than me, I think, so he’s twenty.  He’s got two more years
of school, and he’s as single as they come.  No handcuffs for that
fella.  Brody is twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and he’ll graduate next
June.  He’s engaged to Miss Angela Temple of Richmond – or Angel, as they
call her.  She’s a deb.  I’m sure you’ve heard of the Richmond
Temples.”

Of
course I have no idea who the Richmond Temples are, but I can imagine.  I
am thinking of that name – Angela Temple.  With a name like that, she
would have to be a beauty.

“A
deb?” I ask.

“You
know, a debutante.  She came out last year.”

We
leave the business district behind, and for a short distance we drive between
rows of neat, two-story frame houses in white and pastel colors, with
well-trimmed lawns and hedges and spring flowers.  It’s all very
lovely.  There is an automobile parked in front of nearly every one of
them.  Then we are in open countryside.

“Chris,
if I were looking for a husband,” I finally answer his question, “I would have
stayed at home.  But I came here to find something else.”

We
smile at each other.  You wouldn’t call him handsome.  He’s too
boyish-looking.  But you could call him cute.

I
look at the scenery again.  It is flat, mountainless.  How
strange.  I see long driveways and large, rambling two and three story
homes set far back from the road.

“How
many servants work at the Myles house?” I ask Chris.

“Well,
there’s Tootsie, the youngest, about your age, and the other three housemaids
are Jenny, Ellie and Marie.  Then there’s Bridget, the kitchen manager and
chief cook.  You’ll probably be helping her out quite a lot.  There’s
Louise, the housekeeper.  You’ll answer to her.  There are three
gardeners, Jeff, Brett and Zack, and three colored girls who come to help with

special occasions.”

“That’s
a lot.”

“It’s
a big house,” Chris says, as he pulls off the paved road and onto a driveway,
“and this is it.”

“Oh,
this?” I say, a bit disappointed because it appears to me that the driveway is
the most impressive thing here.  It’s very long and lined on each side by
old white oak trees that almost come together overhead to form an arch, and
it’s paved with bricks.

The
house itself is simple, neat, early American, built with faded red bricks and
white columns across the front portico.  We follow the driveway as it
curves around to the left.  That’s when I see that the house goes on and
on with enormous add-ons to the rear.

“The
original house is old,” Chris says.  “1805, I believe.  But all of
this in the back has been added in the last fifteen or twenty years.  The
addition includes the most modern kitchen you’re likely to find anywhere. 
That’s where the servants’ hall is, sorta behind the kitchen.  Then
there’s a big dining room and the ballroom, which opens out onto that covered
terrace right over there.”

He
points to an extension of the house that has no walls, just a floor and a
partial roof.  As the car rolls by it, I can see plants on this
indoor-outdoor room, also some brightly-colored chairs and gliders scattered
about.  A few hundred feet past the main house, we stop in front of another
building, which is long and skinny.  Here I find a row of doors numbered
one through twelve and a narrow porch running the length of the building, with
a set of steps at each end.

We
get out of the car and Chris carries my bag for me up to number three, where he
takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, then hands the key and the
carpet bag to me.

“Welcome
to the slave quarters,” he says, “and remember to keep up with your key. 
Mrs. Myles does not like it when we lose’em.”

It’s
the first key to anything I have ever had in my possession.  Of course I
will guard it with my life.

“And
who is my roommate?” I ask.

“No
one.  Unless you want one.”  He grins down at me.  “Do you
want
a roommate?”

“You
know what I mean!” I snap at him.

I
see surprise flicker across his face, then contrition.  “Sorry,” he
says.  “No, there’s no roommate.  It’s all yours.”

I
find it thrilling that I am going to have this room all to myself.  I have
envisioned living in a crowded space somewhere in the bowels of the main house
with other girls. 

“That
last door there on the end – number one,” Chris says, “is the ladies’
bathroom.  The

gents’ is number twelve on the other end.”

“That’s
good to know,” I say.

“Dinner
is over,” Chris says, “but Tootsie will bring you a tray.”

“Nice,”
I say.  “When will I meet Mrs. Myles?”

“Tootsie
will let you know.”

“Thank
you, Chris.  You’ve been very helpful.”

He
tips his hat to me for the second time, then leaves me alone.  I step into
my room.  The floor is wooden, the fireplace is stone.  There’s a closet,
a comfortable-looking armchair, and a dresser with four drawers and a tall
mirror.  There’s also a wash stand holding a wash bowl, soap, towel, and a
bucket of water with a dipper hanging on its rim.  Most important is the
bed with a pretty green and gold quilted coverlet, and beside it a bedside
table and lamp.

I
close the door, set my carpet bag down and go to the closet.  Inside I
find a green and white checked bathrobe hanging on the clothes rack. 
There are also fresh linens on a shelf above the rack.

I
wander around the room touching the furniture, opening drawers, glancing out
the window, which is wide and gives a view of that lovely terrace at the back
of the main house.  The window is open and a fresh breeze blows in, gently
moving a pair of clean white curtains.  This is my room.  It is my
private space.  I have a key.  I  begin to put my things away in
the drawers and closet.

When
darkness descends, I glance around, out of habit, for a lantern.  But
wait, there’s that lamp by my bed.  It must be electric!  I find the
switch and the room lights up.  I smile at myself in the mirror.

“You
have electricity, Lorelei,” I say out loud.

There’s
a knock at the door.  “It’s Tootsie, honey,” comes a friendly voice. 
“I brought you some supper.”

I
open the door.  Tootsie looks for all the world like a pixie – a very
pretty one.  Her uniform is a short dress made of the same green and white
checked fabric as the bathrobe in my closet.  Over her dress is a white
ruffled apron with a bib.  Perched atop her cropped red hair is a white
pleated tiara-style cap.  I know it’s only a maid’s uniform, but I love
it.

She
grins at me.  “I’m in number two next door to you.  Welcome,
neighbor.”

“I’m
Lorelei or Lorie.”

“Hope
you’re hungry, Lorelei or Lorie.  I got roast beef and all the fixin’s.”

“Thank
you.  I’m starving.”

“Mrs.
Myles welcomes you and wants to see you first thing in the morning,” Tootsie
says, as she sets the tray down on the dresser and turns to me.  “Right
now she wants you to settle in and rest from your trip.”  She looks me up
and down.  “Well, ain’t you the berries?”

I
know it’s a compliment, but I don’t know how to respond.

“Won’t
you sit for a moment?” I ask.

She
hesitates, then says, “Just for a bit.  I still got work to do in the
kitchen.”

She
parks on the bed and I sit beside her.

“Is
the work hard?” I ask.

“Not
at all.  It’s the life, I tell you.  It’s a breeze.”

“Chris
rattled me a bit when he welcomed me to the slave quarters,” I say.

Tootsie
laughs.  “That Chris!  He shoulda explained why we call it
that.  We may joke about it now, but back in plantation times, this
building was actually used to house the slaves.  A lot of work has been
done to it since then – electricity and bathrooms and all – but in the olden
days a whole family of slaves lived in each one of these rooms, and animals
lived underneath.”

“That’s
why we’re so far off the ground,” I say.  “What’s under us now?”

“Just
firewood and stuff like that.  Don’t worry, no animals, no fleas!”

We
smile at each other.

“Do
we get any free time?” I ask.

“Sure. 
You work five days and get one day off, five on and one off all year
long.  If your day off falls on a weekend or holiday, you’re lucky. 
If not, then that’s the way the old mop flops.”

“That’s
not so bad.  What do you do on your day off?”

“Hang
around and rest.  Or we go into town, see a picture show, buy a bit of
gum, or something.”

“Maybe
we can go together?”

“That
would be dandy if we could, but we won’t ever get the same day off.  Mrs.
Myles makes sure she always has at least four maids on duty at all times.”

“I
understand they throw a lot of parties,” I say.

“Yeah,
and they’re hotsy-totsy!  Good food.  Lots of dancing.”

“Can
you dance, Tootsie?”

“Yeah,
but not at the Myles parties.  The servants aren’t allowed.”

“Of
course not,” I say, though I was hoping the servants might have that chance
once in a while.

“Still
it’s fun watching the rich people dance.”

“Just
how rich are the Myles?” I ask.

“Old
money rich,” she says.  “The oldest money probably in the South.”

“Old
money?”

“Yeah. 
Old money is inherited from generations back,” Tootsie explains.  “There
has been a Broderick Lynch Myles living in the house since 1805.  He was
BLM III, and the one who built the place.  They say that Thomas Jefferson
himself dined here once with that Broderick.  Now the young Mr. Brody is
Broderick Lynch Myles the VII, next in line for the bulk of the estate. 
Roman will get a second son’s share of the money.”