Diary of a Wildflower (18 page)

“This
one.”  He calls out the titles as he tosses the books onto the
couch.  “Oh, you’ve gotta read this one.  And this.  Definitely
this one.”

I
chuckle.  “Brody, I can’t even carry all those books.”

He
chuckles too.  “Okay, which ones do you want?”

“
The
Great Gatsby
, I think.  I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“Good
choice.  And what else?”

“Only
one at a time to start.”

“Okay. 
Read Gatsby first, then we’ll talk about it.”

“Talk
about it?”

“Yes. 
I’ve been dying for somebody to talk to about Gatsby and other books too, but…
god, I miss school.”

He
places the other books back on the shelf, then sinks to the couch.  For a
fleeting moment I think of sitting beside him.  It would seem like a
natural thing to do.  But I don’t.  I

choose the chair at his mother’s desk instead.

“Yeah,
I miss it too,” I say.  “I’m glad I’m through with highschool, but I would
love to go further.”

“You
mean college?  Would you go if you could?”

“Sure. 
I would go to school forever if I could.”

“Me
too,” he says.  “I love the academic environment more than anything. 
In fact, since I attended my first lit class at the university, I have
fantasized about becoming a professor of literature.”

“That’s
a fine dream, Brody.”

He
smiles.  “Yeah, I can picture myself in thirty years as an old
distinguished professor smoking a pipe, and all the students looking up to me
as an authority, but…”

“Then
do it,” I say.

He
folds his arms.  “That’s easy for you to say.  You’re not in my
position.  You’re not a Myles.”

“No,
I’m not a Myles.  I’m nobody,” I say.  “Which means I have had to
move mountains – literally – to make one little thing happen in my life, and
that was to become a maid!  Brody, if I had your money, your station in
life, and all the doors they open up, I sure wouldn’t be whining about my name
holding me back!”

Oops. 
I’ve done it again.

“Are
you insinuating,” Brody says, “that the heir apparent is not only a nosy old
lady, but a whiner as well?”

Good. 
Maybe we’re back to bantering.  But I don’t know what to say next. 
His eyes search my face.  Does he really want me to go on?

“What’s
the worst that will happen if you become a professor?” I ask.

“My
family will be devastated with disappointment,” is his answer.

“Devastated? 
That’s pretty extreme.  And why?  Teaching is an honorable calling.”

“It’s
a working profession.  It’s not part of the Myles tradition,” he says.

“Is
being miserable part of the Myles tradition?”

“I…I
wouldn’t say…well I don’t think I’d be miserable as a…as a…”

“As
a what?” I say.  “As a lawyer who doesn’t practice law?  As a man who
doesn’t work for a living?”

Now
have I gone too far?  “Sorry,” I say.

“No,
don’t be sorry!  I value your opinion.”

“Your
world is so far removed from mine, Brody.”

“I
know.  I need to hear an outside voice sometimes.”

I
take a long, deep breath.  “That first day you talked to me about what is
expected of Myles men, you were angry, and I sensed it was because you feel
crushed under all the tradition.  I don’t know what else to tell you.”

He
thinks about this for a moment, then says, “Tell me this, Lorelei, if
you
could
do anything, be anything, what would you choose to do with your life?”

“I
would find a good college that admits women, and I would go there and study to
become a highschool teacher.”

I
never knew until this moment that’s what I would do if I could.

“No
matter what anyone else thinks of you?” Brody says.  “Even if your family,
whom you love, is furious with you, and shames you and makes you feel guilty?”

“This
is
my
life,” I say.  “I’m the one who has to live it.”

The
dinner bell rings, and Brody rises to his feet.

“I
have to go,” he says, “or they will come looking for me.  We have guests.”

“Of
course,” I say.  I stand and pick up the book.  “You go first.”

His
eyes speak volumes to me about conflicting emotions.

“You
are
not
nobody,” he says before leaving the room.

I
stand there clutching the book to my chest for a long time.

Saturday, June 15, 1929

It
is written up in the society section of the newspaper as the social event of
the season – the ball to be held at the Myles estate on Saturday night, the 15
^th
of June.  Although the engagement of Mr. Broderick Lynch Myles VII and
Miss Angela Billings Temple of Temple Cosmetics, has been announced previously,
this ball will formally introduce her into Charlottesville society. 
Engraved invitations have been sent out to two hundred and fifty guests.

The
maids’ dresses are washed, starched, dried, and ironed, and go onto one’s body
as stiff as a military uniform.  Our special occasion aprons and caps are
white lace.  Three colored girls arrive in the afternoon to help. 
They introduce themselves as Jill, Marge and Delia.  Mrs. Myles has given
us a brief lecture about treating them as equals, so I try not to stare at them
and make them feel different.

Angel,
of course, needs me to be above stairs with her two hours before the scheduled
event, to help her dress.  Once there, however, I find myself standing
idly by, as her mother, who has arrived from Richmond, takes over.  With
Angel half naked in front of me, I see that she has no breasts to speak of, and
I have to scold myself for being so wickedly pleased at this discovery. 
But her dress is like a blue dream – sleeveless, and flowing to the
ankle.  I give my nods of approval and comments of how lovely and how
sweet, and how adorable.  That’s the extent of my service.

I
find myself wondering if I will still be her personal maid on the day of her
wedding.  How will I feel in attending her as she dresses in her white
gown to walk down the aisle with Brody?

I
look out Angel’s bedroom window and see that the guests are lining the brick
driveway with their shiny automobiles.  A live orchestra arrives from
Washington D.C., and when we hear them tuning up, we know it’s time.

“Lorie,
darling,” Angel whispers as we approach the stairs.  “You must, I repeat
must
stay close to me tonight.  I am going to need you.”

“Of
course, Miss Angel.  I will be right by your side all through the
evening.”

And
so I am.  Even as Brody enters in his elegant tuxedo and silk brocade
vest, and greets her with a kiss on the cheek.  Even as the guests line up
to speak to her as if to royalty, and refer to Brody as a lucky fella. 
Even as I watch Brody take her little white un-calloused hand into his and lead
her onto the dance floor in the ball room.  Even as I see them smiling at
one another as they dance so divinely together before all the admiring
eyes.  I stay right where she can find me handily to do her bidding.
 Yes, even as Brody, all the while, avoids looking at me directly. 
Still I stand by his Angel.

The
maids are not asked to serve alcohol, but somewhere the guests are finding it
for themselves.  Everyone is given an identical dark blue crystal water
glass so that nobody knows what anybody else is drinking.  I surmise that
some of them actually have water in their water glasses, while others have tea
or fruit punch or pop.  Angel drinks only coca-cola.  The partiers
eat mountains of finger food and sweets, and hang on to their little blue
glasses all evening, as the talk and laughter grow louder and jollier.

My
duties are so trivial, I feel foolish in performing them.  I wonder Angel
doesn’t feel even more foolish.  I keep a handkerchief handy for her to
wipe her hands.  I keep her glass filled.  I fetch food for her when
she requests it.  I hold onto her tiny silver purse where her lipstick and
compact are stashed.  I help her repair a chipped fingernail.  I
accompany her to the bathroom, and do other such silly things as that. 
When there is not a task at hand, I stand quietly at attention until I am
needed again.

As
I wait there in my short, starched maid’s uniform, the dancers go whirling past
me in their formal evening wear and fine gowns with beads and feathers and
scarves fluttering about their scented bodies.  Mr. and Mrs. Myles dance
together most of the evening, but sometimes Mr. Myles leads another partner
onto the ballroom floor.  Roman dances with every female guest in the
room, young and old alike, and seems to have more fun than anybody else. 
A couple of times he actually pauses beside me and makes witty remarks as if I
were one of the guests.

Brody
mingles, making sure that he speaks to everybody in attendance – except
me.  He also dances sometimes with partners other than Angel.  Even
without knowing how to dance myself, I can see that he is the best dancer in
the room, and his intended bride is almost as good as he is.  After a
while the dancers spill out onto the terrace where the furniture has been
pushed aside.  I think it is the most lovely sight in the world to see the
beautiful people dipping and flowing in the dim lights of the terrace and the
pale light of the moon.

I
almost want to cry for the longing that is in me, and I think of the Old Thing
in the woods by Willy’s Road, how it goes on wanting and wanting day and night,
year after year, but never gets satisfied of its wanting.

At
two o’clock the orchestra plays
After the Ball,
and wraps up for the
night, and Mrs. Myles orders Tootsie to turn on the victrola and keep the
records spinning.  Through a haze of cigarette smoke I see Brody and Angel
sitting arm to arm with other young people who are almost as beautiful and rich
as they are.  The maids and the colored girls begin to clean up the litter
and debris.  I wait for instructions.

“You’re
lucky,” Jenny whispers to me in passing.

“Lucky?”
I say.

“Yeah. 
All you have to do is stand here and wait for the commands of the princess.”

“I
would much prefer doing what you are doing,” I whisper in return.  “My
dogs have turned to stone.”

At
three o’clock the last guest departs, and Mrs. Myles orders all of us to sleep
until ten in the morning.  I don’t know where Brody is.  I accompany
Angel to her room.

“Go
to bed, darling,” she says to me.  “I can take it from here.”

I
escape before she can change her mind.  In my room I lie on top of the
coverlet without undressing, place my hand on Dixie’s head and stare at the
ceiling.  I think of Samuel in Caroline’s bed.  I think of Trula and
Mack.  I think of Jewel asleep in our room by herself.  All those
years of wanting to leave that place, and now I wish that I were tucked snugly
and safely into the loft in the log house on the mountain, never knowing
anything else outside that little world.

“Brody
didn’t even look at me tonight, Dixie,” I say.  “You should have seen them
dancing together.  They were so beautiful.  I will never have the
chance to dance with him.  I have let daydreams blind me, but tonight I
can see clearly how far apart we are.”

Dixie
looks up at me with big, sad eyes.

I
am too numb to feel the pain.  I think tomorrow it will hit me like a
heart attack.  If only I could sleep now.  If only I could close my
eyes without seeing his face.  If only I could get the sad words of that
song –
After
the Ball
– out of my head.

Monday, June 17
^th
, 1929

I
am summoned to help Marie with serving breakfast in the dining room.  Mr.
and Mrs. Myles, Brody and Roman are at the table.  Angel is sleeping
in.  Brody is driving her back to Richmond today, and will be staying with
her for awhile.  I serve him as if he were a stranger.  Then I stand
by the kitchen door as instructed, in case anything is needed.

Mrs.
Myles says the party was a huge success, so I am puzzled that she is so
disgruntled.  She snaps at Roman for slouching at the table. 
Although he is a grown man of twenty, he sits erect at his mother’s
command.  Then he rolls his eyes at me as Mrs. Myles moves on to another
grievance.

“I
know you tend to lose track of time when you’re with Angel,” she says to Brody,
“but don’t forget your father’s birthday party on the 28
^th
. 
You must be here for that – both of you.”

Oh,
god, that means he will be with
her
for more than a week.

“Did
you hear me, Brody?” Mrs. Myles says sharply.

“Yes,
Mother, I heard you,” Brody says with weariness in his voice.  “The 28
^th
. 
When did I ever forget Father’s birthday party?”

Back
at the slave quarters in the evening we meet in Ellie’s room  She has found
a bottle of good wine which she shares, but I politely decline, and I am
relieved that nobody pressures me to drink.

“Now,
hear this!” Ellie says, “Chris drove me into town today – Mrs. Myles’s
orders.  And from now on, if the cars are not spoken for, he can chauffeur
us wherever we need to go.”

“Says
you!”

“And
how did you get back?”

“He
picked me up at five,” Ellie says.  “Ladies, we got our own jitney.”

“You
are horsing around!”

“Not
me.  Not today.  Mrs. Myles had a change of heart.”

“Did
you hear about the big fight between her and Brody?” Tootsie says in a gossipy
whisper.

“No. 
Tell it.”

“I
won’t say who told me, but they clashed over Brody’s education.”

“What
about it?”

“Well,
he says he’s not going to finish his law degree ‘cause he wants to change his
course of study.  Get this.  He wants to be a teacher at the
university.”

The
girls laugh like this is the funniest thing ever.

“Brody
a teacher?”

“Can
you believe it?  A man who never had to lift a finger in his whole life!”

“He’ll
quit as soon as he finds out it’s work.”

“Oh,
I think it’s sweet,” Tootsie says, as she takes a big swig of the wine. 
“Brody is a sweet fella.”

Tuesday, June 18
^th
, 1929

It’s
my day off, and the noise in my head starts even before I open my eyes:
he
is with her..he is with her. 
He will be with her for ten more
days.  Ten long days.  If I don’t get busy, I will start imagining
what they do when they are alone.

I
get up and go to breakfast.  I collect my pay while I’m there and add it
to my stash.  I have twenty-six dollars and some change now, but I have a
feeling I will have to use much of it when the weather turns cold.  I will
need a heavy coat and some warm stockings and shoes, and other winter things.

I
wash my hair in rainwater, and as I sit on the steps drying it in the sun, I
take a look at my hands.  I have been using Temple’s hand cream faithfully
every night, and yes, the callouses do seem smaller and smoother.

He
is with her…he is with her.

I
jump to my feet and hurry back to my room.  Stay busy.  Yes, busy,
busy.  Catch up on correspondence.  I know Jewel and Samuel share my
letters with Bea, but she will be pleased to get one of her own.  So I
write the first letter to her and send her a dollar.  Then I do the same
for Jewel, giving her some big-sister advice to save her money as I did, so she
will have a small nest egg when she finishes highschool.  I write short
notes to Samuel, Trula, Opal and Mr. Harmon.  Next time I’ll write to
Luther and Sally, though I have a feeling they couldn’t care less.

I
go to the servants’ hall and take stamps from Louise’s box.  She sells
them to us on the honor system.  I leave the right change and place my
letters in the outgoing mail.

“Ah,
love letters again!” I hear Roman behind me.

“What
are
you
doing in the servants’ hall?” I ask.

He
laughs down at me with twinkling blue eyes.  He is almost as tall as
Brody, and almost as good-looking.  And he’s
not
engaged to be
married.

“Believe
it or not,” he says, “I am collecting the outgoing mail to take to the mail
box.  It’s Brett’s job, but he’s off today, and everybody else is busy, so
Mother sent me.”

“That
is backbreaking work,” I say.  “Sure you’re up to it?”

He
laughs again, and glances around, as if to check that nobody is close by. 
“Can you get away for a minute to walk with me?”

“Sure. 
It’s my day off.”

As
we begin our walk down the long driveway, Roman starts riffling through the
mail.  “Samuel Starr,” he says.  “Jewel Starr.  Trula
Starr.  Opal Johns.  Russell Harmon?  Is he the lucky fella?”

I
don’t answer.

“Kissin’
cousin?”

“I
would not be so nosy with your personal mail,” I say.

“You
would if you got the chance.”

“Would
not.”

“Would
too.”

We
smile at each other.  Then his face turns serious.  “I’m just jawin’ with
you, Lorie, ‘cause I don’t know how to talk to you.”

“Nonsense,”
I say.  “You could talk to a wooden Indian.”

“Not
if he rattled me like you do,” he says.

“Mr.
Roman, I can’t imagine anybody rattling you.”