Duet for Three Hands (16 page)

J
eselle

D
espite her dedication
to writing Whitmore, there were certain aspects of Jeselle’s life she chose not to share with him. She suspected when a man loved a woman it rendered them irrational at the mere hint of any mistreatment. She could not risk Whit doing something rash, therefore she kept the details of her experiences to herself. The truth was uglier than her letters suggested.

The Greers lived one street over from the Bellmonts in a massive Victorian. The morning of her interview, Jeselle had knocked on the back door, knowing it was unheard of for a colored girl to be at the front of anything. Mrs. Greer opened the door at once and motioned for her to come inside. The kitchen, once fine, was now shabby. The wallpaper, a pattern of red apples and frilly red curtains, peeled at the corners, white moldings were chipped and scuffed, and once red curtains were faded to the color of rust.

“Your mother works for Clare Bellmont?” Mrs. Greer, stringy and sharp, made of nothing but bones and dry skin, crossed her arms across a flat chest. “Long time now, isn’t that right?” Her front teeth came to a point, like a rodent’s, Jeselle thought with a shiver. One of the nasty, greedy ones that skirt out from the bushes on the city streets of Atlanta, waiting for a child’s dropped crumb.

“Yes, ma’am. All my life.” Jeselle shifted her weight from one foot to the other; the floorboard creaked.

“I see.” Mrs. Greer fixed her eyes on Jeselle as if examining her for bruises or hidden worms like a peach in a bin at the grocer. “You work for Mrs. Bellmont, too, then?”

“Yes, ma’am. Since I was small.”

“This job’s just standard maid duties, along with taking care of my daughter. My husband likes his meals on time.”

“I cook, too?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Two dollars a week.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Greer.”

When Jeselle arrived back at the Bellmonts’ she found Mama and Mrs. Bellmont in the garden. Mama knelt in the dirt, tending to her herbs in the corner of the yard. She didn’t look up from her task.

Mrs. Bellmont cut dead blooms from a rose bush with a pair of scissors but turned toward her the moment Jeselle was near. “How was it, baby girl?”

“I start tomorrow. I’ll be her only help.”

“In that big house?” Mrs. Bellmont cut a brown bud from a thorny vine and tossed it into the bucket at her feet. “They’re old money, but I’ve heard rumors they’ve fallen on hard times.” She moved to the next rose bush, cutting a wayward vine. “How much a week?”

“Two dollars.”

“What? Why, that’s criminal.” Mrs. Bellmont threw down her shears. “Cassie?”

“Don’t you worry, Miz Bellmont.” Cassie looked up from her work. “We can’t expect everyone to be as generous as you are.”

“Well then, why can’t she just work here?”

“Just ’cause that ain’t the way it’s gonna be,” answered Mama.

“You’re the most stubborn woman ever born.”

“You got that right.” Mama plucked a large sprig of rosemary and held it up for them to see. “This’ll taste just fine with the pork roast I got at the market.”

Jeselle looked over at Mrs. Bellmont and shrugged. They both knew it was no use to argue with Mama.

T
he next morning
Jeselle arrived to the Greer’s home at seven. She’d been preoccupied the morning before, nervous about the interview, and hadn’t noticed that the garden was as dilapidated as the interior of the house. Weeds carpeted the ground between plants, and brown patches were scattered across the lawn. A birdbath with dirty water, the sides of which were covered in mildew and moss, tilted like it might fall over at any moment. A muddy pond and a gazebo with faded paint and broken steps took up one corner of the yard.

The door stood open. Mrs. Greer sat at the kitchen table, bent over a tablet. Jeselle lingered at the doorway, feeling awkward, and finally cleared her throat. Only then did Mrs. Greer look up. “Well, don’t dawdle, girl. Come on in here and get to work.” Squinty eyes with bags underneath that looked like uncooked pie dough darted to the paper on the table. She moved her arms over the pad. “Chore list is next to the sink. I expect all of it to be done by the time you leave tonight.”

Iron shirts.

Wash clothes in wicker basket.

Give Winnie bath.

Scrub bathroom.

Polish hardwood floor in sitting room.

Prepare supper.

Jeselle calculated how long each task would take. If she used all the tricks Mama had taught her over the years she might be able to accomplish all of it.

A baby toddled into the kitchen. She had fair hair that stuck straight up like she’d had a fright.

“This is Winifred. We all call her Winnie. She’s almost two.”

Jeselle bent down to the child’s level. “Hello, Miss Winnie. I’m Jeselle.”

“Me baby.” She pointed a chubby finger at her chest, her pale blue eyes never leaving Jeselle’s face.

“I have friends coming over later,” Mrs. Greer said. “I’ll want a cake made before they come. I have to go out.” She ripped the piece of paper from the pad and stuffed it in her purse.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Winnie stood at the door, crying, watching the back of her retreating mother. Jeselle picked her up and perched her on her hip. Winnie rubbed her runny nose on Jeselle’s shoulder. “Me baby.”

“Me Jeselle.” She grabbed a bowl from the hutch. “And we have a cake to make.”

T
he days went on
, one after the other, a blur of cooking and taking care of Winnie and ticking off tasks from Mrs. Greer’s lists. September turned to November with little recollection of October. In December a shift occurred. Additional notes besides the daily instructions began to appear on LRG’s stationary. The first was about the fried chicken from the night before.

The chicken wasn’t fit to eat. PINK and BLOODY. I will dock your pay 25 cents this week.—LRG

The words
pink
and
bloody
were underlined three times. “I think I know how to fry a chicken, Miss Winnie,” Jeselle said.

Winnie was on the floor, playing with an old doll of Frances’s that Mrs. Bellmont had sent over. “Baby ’ikes ’icken.”

All that week there were notes of criticism, detailing further deductions from her pay. Tuesday, the clothes weren’t properly ironed. Wednesday, smudges on the wine goblets. Thursday, Winnie wasn’t clean enough before Jeselle put her to bed.

On Friday morning Mrs. Greer stood in the kitchen when Jeselle arrived, obviously waiting for her.

“There’s a red mark on Winnie’s face.” Mrs. Greer’s eyes darted to the floor and back to Jeselle. “Did you hit her?”

“I noticed a scratch yesterday. It was there when I came in the morning.” Jeselle heard her voice go higher pitched, as if she were guilty. “I would no sooner harm a baby than my very own mama.”

“I want you out of my house. You’re lucky I don’t turn you in to the police. My husband has influence in this town.”

“What about my pay for the week?”

“I wouldn’t give you a red-dirt cent after what you’ve done. What’ll fancy Clare Bellmont think of you now?”

Jeselle trudged toward home in the rain, wondering how she was going to explain all of it to Mama and Mrs. Bellmont. Instead of going home, she went to the park, where she found a bench and sank into it. Pulling her coat tight, she cried without bothering to wipe her tears from her cheeks.

She carried on this way for a half hour before giving herself a shake and slogging the rest of the way home. It was midmorning by then, the house quiet as she hung up her coat and hat and walked down the hallway. She heard Mrs. Bellmont and Mama talking in the study and found them huddled together at the desk.

“I used two tablespoons for a time, but I think it’s better with only one and a half,” said Mama.

“All right, so that’s one and a half hickory root.” Mrs. Bellmont jotted something into a notebook.

Jeselle cleared her throat. “I’m home.”

They both looked up. “Jes?” asked Mama.

“What happened?” asked Mrs. Bellmont.

“I was let go.” The tears came again.

“Why?” Mama’s mouth made a straight line.

“They couldn’t afford you,” said Mrs. Bellmont. “And she made up a reason, didn’t she?”

Jeselle nodded, unable to speak.

“What did she accuse you of?” Mrs. Bellmont rose to her feet.

“She said I slapped the baby.”

“Was the child hurt?” asked Mama.

“She had a scratch. But it wasn’t from me. I swear.” There again—the higher pitch to her voice. Why did she feel guilty when she’d done nothing wrong?

“Well, of course you didn’t do anything to that poor baby,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

“She refused to give me my wages. There was something new each day this week that she said I did wrong, and she kept docking my pay.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Mrs. Bellmont.

“I was too ashamed.”

Mrs. Bellmont’s cheeks flamed red. “I’ll be damned if I let someone cheat you out of what is owed you.” She marched into the foyer. Jeselle and Mama followed. Mrs. Bellmont shoved her hands into her white gloves so hard Jeselle expected to see her fingernails push right through the fabric.

From the window, they watched her march down the street with her bag under her arm. “I’ve never heard a curse word pass her lips in all the years I’ve known her.” Mama shook her head. “That woman never ceases to surprise me.”

W
hen Mrs. Bellmont
returned an hour later, she launched into her story without even taking off her coat. “I went right on down there to the Greers’ home. I knocked on the front door once, loud. But no one answered. I thought I heard footsteps, like someone creeping down the stairs. How I wished I could stick my ear right next to the door so I could hear better, but I showed some restraint, figuring there’s always someone looking out a window, hoping for gossip. So I went around back to the kitchen door and knocked again. Still no answer—just a fluttering of faded red curtain at the kitchen window. I had half a mind to wait her out. I’m sorry the Greers are going through hard times, but that’s no reason to treat others unkindly.” She shrugged out of her coat. “I’m just fit to be tied. Next time I see her I’ll be giving her a piece of my mind. You can count on that.”

“Here Miz Bellmont, set a bit,” said Mama. “I made you some tea.”

Mrs. Bellmont did as she was told. But her eyes still had the sharp look. “Jes, you simply cannot work for the Lucinda Greers of the world.”

Jeselle looked at her hands. “What other choice do I have?”

“Stay here,” Mrs. Bellmont said. “Keep working for us.”

“She needs to make her own way,” said Mama.

“Why, Cassie? Why, when she has me?”

Mama looked at the floor. “It’s the way things are.”

“Well then, just until we can figure out what to do next, let her stay here with us.” Mrs. Bellmont’s eyes went to the crystal displayed on the top shelf of the hutch. “Cassie, how much you think that vase and bowl are worth?”

“No idea.”

Mrs. Bellmont twisted her wedding ring on her finger before pulling it off and tapping the diamond in a rhythm on the tabletop. Then she rubbed the indentation left by the ring on her finger. “This ring’s bothering me, Cassie. I think I’ll leave it off for a while.”