Authors: Anne J. Steinberg
Manroot (8 page)
Bruce came early in the week to find out how many brooms and brushes Frieda wanted.
She sent Katherine to choose; she followed him to the shed. His sense of order in his occupation was totally opposite from the care he took of his person. Today he wore a wool cap pulled low on his head; his ears stuck out, growing red from the crisp north wind. The buttons on his jacket were long since gone, replaced by two large safety pins. His trousers were two inches too short for his long legs, and he walked slowly in the painful shoes that were too small. His face usually beamed his good nature and a smile remained minutes after the initial smile. Sally had teased him and claimed to be afraid of him…‘He’s strange, real strange,’ but Katherine felt no unease in his presence. It was as Frieda said: “The child in him was frozen there. It’s an eight-year-old child in that big body, never you mind. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
The shed had a new-mown smell to it.
Stacked in the corners, careful heaps of broomcorn were separated…some golden wheat color, others red where Bruce had harvested the straw after it was completely ripe. In a barrel filled to the top were seeds where Bruce had combed the corn with a child’s saw. The stacks of finished brooms leaned against the wall, divided by sizes and uses; it was the arrangement that Frieda could choose for the hotel what she needed, before Bruce took the rest of his handiwork from clubhouse to clubhouse to sell. Most owners prided themselves on buying at least one broom or brush out of sympathy to Mrs. Wiley, Bruce’s mother, but truth was he made the best brooms in the area, and not given to counting, Bruce often sold his handiwork on the donation basis… Whereas some cheated and others were generous, it evened out.
Katherine selected one hearth broom for the fireplaces; these were made of stalks without a handle.
She tested the stalked and they held well. She picked a kitchen broom; she saw Bruce’s disappointment that she had not chosen the red one, for Frieda said brooms made of overripe broomcorn were brittle and not so durable. She selected two more that would be left on the different floors in the house. She examined them carefully and saw that each was sewn with cotton thread tied sturdy and even.
“
These are good, Bruce – very good.”
He smiled a smile left over from his original greeting to her, and rocked back and forth nervously, his mouth worki
ng as if trying to tell her something. In the dim hut she began to feel a vague uneasiness and recalled Sally’s words:
He’s strange, real strange.’
Taking the brooms she said nervously, “
I have to go, Frieda’s needin’ me in the kitchen.” Bruce remembered how angry Frieda could get when she’d curse and chase you.
“
But Miss Katherine…wait.” And his hand came around from his back holding it out to her. “For you.”
He held toward her a small, well-made cornhusk doll.
She took it and turned it over gingerly. The doll was about nine inches long, with dark corn silks for her hair, and she was holding a small bouquet of tiny dried flowers. “She’s beautiful! Bruce, thank you. Thank you very much!” He shifted from foot to foot, then picked up her brooms that she had selected and followed her out of the hut. She was ashamed of herself for feeling that moment of fear.
Frieda was pleased with the selection and invited Bruce to sit down.
She put a big plate of blueberry cobbler before him. He gulped the dessert, dripping juice down his chin, which he didn’t bother to wipe off.
Katherine felt it drawing nearer.
It would be. She looked in the Valentine box and felt ashamed. Would he only come to her because of these things? She held a cuff-link in her palm, warming the metal. She felt his essence, knowing him to be different from the way the world saw him. She felt his loneliness; it matched hers. She wound a strand of sandy hair around her finger. One by one, she held the articles before putting them back into the box. It was not wrong. They belonged to each other. She knew him. Maybe it was like the story Me Maw had told, of how, when the world was new, humans were one entity until an angry god split them apart, so they must search through eternity for the other half that they had lost.
She had found him.
He was her other half – and if these things, the bits and pieces, made it possible to bring him to her, then it was good. She closed the box and went into the woods to hunt for the rhododendron. She could not find one, and she could not bear to give him hers – so cruel to pull it from the earth, imprison it in a clay pot.
With a sense of gloom William looked around the greenhouse.
Row upon row of flowerpots, containing only brown stalks indicating past glory, were all that remained.
Even though he had ignored it, the Bonsai flourished.
It was a particularly beautiful tree, almost twenty-five years since he had cropped the roots; the oak had all the symmetry of a grown tree. It seemed wrong to leave it here among the dead plants. He would give it to the girl, Kathy. He could envision it placed on that plain dresser in her modest room.
He must tell her that it should be put outdoors at times, for the bonsai needed to feel the pulse of the changing seasons.
He felt the happiness of a giver.
It was strange how often something reminded him of her.
“Are you going to work on the greenhouse again?”
Her question startled him; he turned to see
Elizabeth picking her way carefully down the stone steps.
“
Well, yes – maybe I will.”
“
The strawberries were lovely, especially when we had them at Christmas,” she commented.
“
Yes,” he agreed, remembering when he had all sorts of exotic plants, fruits, and berries growing in there.
She looked down at the pot he was holding.
“That looks healthy.”
“
It’s fine,” he nodded. “I thought I’d give it to a colleague, a young lawyer who’s very keen on gardening.” He turned away from her, feeling guilty about the lie. He could never explain his friendship with the girl.
“
Do you want Tom to clean up the greenhouse if you’re thinking of working it again?”
“
Yes, Elizabeth, that might be a good idea.” In her sweeping glance at the building, he could see her ordering, calculating things she must buy.
“
What sort of peat and pots and seeds to you want me to get in? Why, Tom could pick up everything you need Monday. I could get him a very specific list.”
“
Please don’t bother,” he protested. “I’m not sure if I’ll have time right now. Just have him clean it up. You know, throw out all the dead plants and just tidy up the place.”
She hesitated.
“It’s no bother.”
“
No, there’s nothing I want right now,” he said sharply.
Disappointed, she turned and walked slowly back up the steps.
He felt a wave of pity for her; she had so little in her life. He excused her for her extravagance and waste. It didn’t matter. Perhaps if the children had lived she might have been different.
On Monday he took the Bonsai to his chambers; it sat patiently on his desk as a permanent reminder of her.
Among the files and the sordid cases the tree was a reminder of things William felt were still good and pure.
On Friday he packed the p
lant carefully in a box, setting it on the floor of the car. At the hotel he glanced out of the window hoping to see her tending her garden, but being late fall, just a few things were still green, and he realized the garden now needed very little tending.
He felt foolish; he could hardly go down and knock on her door.
It was possible she wouldn’t even be in.
He had not noticed her at supper; the buffet was tended by the older woman.
Now the gift seemed crazy, unexplainable. He didn’t understand it himself, yet it had seemed so clear, so right, just a week ago standing in the ruined greenhouse.
On impulse he went down the stairs to examine closer the garden.
In the twilight a few patches of color still bloomed, her wildflowers almost gone to seed.
He noticed
the light in her room.
Against the shade he saw her silhouette; gracefully he saw her lift an arm, as she washed from the basin, and he felt like an obscene Peeping Tom as he observed the motion of her body, the outline of her breast, her profile.
She dipped forward and he watched as she washed her hair. He held his breath, ashamed that he still stood rooted to the spot, spying on her shadow.
The wind came up, and the rustling sound of leaves falling broke the spell.
William turned quickly and ran up the steps.
Now the plant on the dresser seemed to mock him.
‘Foolish man, foolish old man,’ he told himself.
He ran a bath, and took out some casual clothes from his suitcase; he thought maybe a card game at the Eagle
’s Nest would be a good idea. He spent the evening playing poker. He couldn’t concentrate and lost consistently. The whiskey tasted foul, so he drank very little.
He returned to the hotel early, paced the room, and finally decided to go down and give her the plant and be done with it.
Angrily he snatched the pot and went quickly down the stairs.
He realized his knock was too loud.
She appeared in the door, surprise visible in her face.
“
Here.” Rudely he thrust the plant toward her.
She blushed and muttered a quiet, “
Thank you.”
Still she didn
’t reach for it. So he continued, “It’s a tree, a Bonsai it’s called. It’s twenty-five years old, a pin oak.” He paused. “I want you to have it.”
A tiny acorn fell, and he stopped to retrieve it.
As he did so, he brushed her toe and they both jumped. He straightened, moved past her, and placed the plant on the barren dresser.
“
It’s a real tree?” she asked.
“
Yes. Bonsai is an oriental art. I became interested in it –” He stopped, for she was crying.
Leaving her post by the door, she sat heavily on one of the
beds, and he heard the sound of her soft sobbing.
Helplessly he stood there, and the open door moved noisily in the wind.
“I’m sorry – what’s wrong?” She looked like a small unhappy child, huddled over, her thin shoulders heaving, the thick auburn hair covering her tear-stained face.
“
It’s just – it’s just so sad,” she managed to say.
In a blinding flash he realized it.
Of course she would think that, he now saw it to be so – the dignity of this magnificent tree bound, imprisoned in this tiny pot. He caught the sadness of his act.
“
It’s okay,” he said, and he laughed.
He grabbed the pot from the dresser.
“Trowel,” he commanded.
She rose, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and followed him out the door.
With the trowel, he cracked the concrete top that held the tree in place, gently massaged the roots, and in the middle of her garden, he dug the hole. It was a funny little dwarf of a tree, but here he felt it would grow and stretch as God intended.
He looked up and saw her smiling; her eyes were red, h
er face flushed, but she was smiling.
A slice of light from her room was a barrier between them.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“
You’re welcome,” and he rose and went up the stairs, and he could see the white of her dress as she still knelt in the garden admiring the tree in the silver moonlight.
He undressed and lay across the bed; he felt good, so good.
There was a rapport between them that he could not explain, but he knew now he could not compromise her. She was different – naïve, yet bright. He was certain she was untouched; he would not act on his feeling of physical attraction.
He was certain that she did not suspect the desire that she kindled in him; he had no appetite for ruining young women.
He would content himself with this strange friendship. She made him feel good. She brought back the young William who had ideals, beliefs – all that had been in him that was pure.
He settled for sleep, content that he had made another human being happy.
It had been a long time since he had done that.
Elizabeth
’s picture on the nightstand accused him. He laid it flat, face down. It was not his fault the babies had died; it was not his fault that she had no interests, no passions in life.
With the winter coming on, the women were busy in the kitchen preparing tonics.
They started with basswood bark tea. They boiled the bark that they had gathered on one of their outings; strained it, then added honey and a drop of lemon. “It’s for colds. Mr. Taylor swears by it,” Frieda confided. They used a small funnel to put it into bottles that were boiled and clean.
Katherine made one trip to Bailey
’s general store. She had Frieda’s list; she broke her silver dollar to buy the notebook. She looked among the cosmetics, pricing things she would like to buy Frieda for Christmas. Seeing ‘Gardenia’ cologne on sale for fifty-nine cents, she bought it. It would be difficult to keep it until Christmas. She owed Frieda so much. She had come to love the woman and understood it was a close relationship that was still distant. Katherine kept busy. In the long evenings, she looked through her Valentine box and her treasures. The cornhusk doll was the same height as the headless man, the ginseng… It was comforting at night to see their twin shadows on the window-ledge, side by side.
William would be coming Friday.
To herself she now called him ‘William.’ He arrived at his usual time, 3 p.m., leaving a message that he would not be present at dinner. This changed the plans for the kitchen. Usually when there were guests, dinner was served at 6:30 in the dining room, but off-season this rarely happened. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor at those times ate in their private quarters, which were on the west wing of the house. Katherine had rarely seen Mrs. Taylor. She was an obese woman who slept late, read magazines and craved chocolates. The Judge’s key was not on the rack; he was in his room and he rang for service. Today Katherine wore the uniform – a black dress with a snowy-white apron, and a small pleated hat that perched on her head. Two sets of uniforms had been bought at an auction house in St. Louis because Mr. Taylor had thought them classy. No matter what size the present maid, these two were the only available uniforms. After Sally left, Katherine tried on hers, but they were both too small. Each hiked three inches above her knee, but otherwise the bodice fitted well on her slender frame. Her hair was pinned up under the cap; its silky texture made it difficult to restrain, and usually several silken strands escaped.
Katherine answered the bell and went to Room 8.
He opened immediately, not looking at her, and ordered a bottle of bourbon and spring water. When she returned carrying the tray, he called for her to enter. The room was dim; the shades pulled halfway down rustled as a draft blew in through the windows. He sat relaxed in the armchair, his coat slung carelessly on the bed, his shirt a crumpled heap on the floor, his tie and watch on the bedside table next to the picture of the smiling blonde woman. His undershirt was white and the marks of a summer sunburn remained still visible on his arms; above the curved neck of the shirt was a mass of chest hair. It was an intimate moment and Katherine looked away as she placed the tray on the table beside him. The glasses clinked; he looked up. “Why, Kathy, thank you,” and he searched her face. “Today you look like the one whose head hurts, you’re frowning so.”
She didn
’t answer, looking down at the toe of her shoes, waiting for him to dismiss her. “Here,” he offered, and reached for her hands. He massaged her thumbs in the same manner that she had done. She stood before him, her chest tight for want of breath; when he looked up she met his eyes. He leaned closer. Perhaps he was mistaken, but he saw the way in which her dark eyes misted and smoldered. He had known many women – it was unmistakable. Raw want lived there; he felt desire kindle within him, brilliant and blazing.
Still holding her thumbs, he gently drew her to him, leading her gently to his lap.
She felt the roughness of his tweed trousers and the bristle of his chest hair as she hid her warm face against his shoulder.
“
You’re so lovely,” he murmured.
He lifted
her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. His lips were warm and moist; they moved, covering her neck among her silken hair. She felt the moistness as he kissed her ears, and the shallow sound of his ragged breath thundered in her ears. Her whole body quivered with anticipation, and like a symphony it moved slowly, but seemed to mount. Her white cap fell to the floor, and a tinny shower of hairpins began to slide from her hair. For a very brief instant she felt a stab of fear, fear of the magic that had brought him to her. She was less afraid of his smooth hands that crept up her stockings until they touched her flesh. Settling deeply into the chair he arranged her to him; she felt the sharp contrast of his beard stubble and the warmth and softness of his lips.
He tasted of mint.
As he coaxed her with his tongue, a separateness overcame her. Only the sensations of her body were real, yet unreal. A slow warmth enveloped her. Outside somewhere, a bird called and she felt a part of it. The world, it was not a window anymore; he had opened the door for her.
Gently he lowered her to the floor; the oriental rug beneath them was enough.
It took all of her concentration of feeling, his mouth now sucking gently at her breast, his hands gentle, searching under her skirts. The clock somewhere in the hall chimed seven. The windows rattled with a new wind; she welcomed the weight of him as he lowered his body above hers.
Feeling his face pressed into the hollow of her neck, with an instinct as old as time she joined him in th
e rhythm with total abandonment, for the first time feeling pleasure. This was love; it had nothing to do with the other.
The shade rattled and darkness descended as a clap of thunder resounded; the sound loosened the mirror on the dresser and it tilted fo
rward. In the gloom, she could see the back of his head, his undershirt white as snow, her dark legs wound around him, holding him, their movement back and forth in the motion of ecstasy. Dreamlike, she stared into the mirror and knew.
After a time, he slu
mped upon her; she heard the rapid sound of his breath. Not knowing what had happened to her, she felt spent and drained, her limbs weak.
He rose on one arm and smoothed her hair back from her face and looked down at her.
“Who was it?” he demanded, his voice icy.
She searched his face, not understanding.
“I thought you were different, not like the others.”
Katherine felt confusion.
It had been wonderful – his warmth, his touch, but now his eyes were cold as glass, demanding something of her.
“
Justin? – Mr. Taylor? – one of the traveling drummers?
Who loved you before me?
”
Her lips trembled; she knew no answer.
His fingers bit into her flesh, demanding. “Who have you been with like this?” A strange, frantic jealousy filled him. She was so fresh, so beautiful. She was a mirage – yet no different from all the others.
“
I’ve loved no one,” she whispered.
He smirked.
“This is not the first time, oh no, not by a long shot.”
“
I’ve loved no one,” she pleaded.
He sat up, looking down at her.
“I’m not a fool,” he sneered. “You have known other men. How many were there? Five, ten – how many?”
“
Oh.” She realized what he meant. She struggled to sit up, looked down at her hands. “It was not like this – it was not the same. It was ugly, painful. I never wanted it – it was my father. I had to…” She began crying, her shoulders quivering with her sobs.
“
Your father? The son of a bitch!” He rose and began pacing the room. “Your father, the bastard, he should be in jail. Where is he, this bastard?”
“
He’s gone,” she whispered.
A wave of tenderness rose within him.
He came to her, lifted her gently, and placed her on the bed. He bent toward her, murmuring, “It’s okay. I promise you, it’ll be okay.”
He undressed her like a child, with care, removing her stockings.
Gently, he tugged at the uniform, pulling the slip over her head. She lay before him now, her eyes closed. He admired the beauty of her young body, and he felt unreasonably touched as he saw her eyelids flutter and from her thick, dark lashes, one single tear hesitated before it rolled down her cheek. He bent toward her again, murmuring, “I promise you, it’ll be okay.”
His lips were gentle as he kissed her closed eyelids.
He put her under the covers, turned out the light, dressed himself in the dark and told her to stay, to rest, to sleep. He went down and rang for Mr. Taylor. He could always count on the hotel and its discretion; he paid well for it. When he returned, he pulled up the shade. The storm had passed, and bright moonlight flooded the room. He lifted the coverlet and crept in beside her. His body cupped to hers, he clasped her to him, and he felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. They slept. During the night, they shifted; as she turned he saw the profile of her lovely face. He reached forward and soft as a butterfly wing he kissed her parted lips, until she awoke. Drowsy, she clung to him and experienced the fires of a deep consuming passion. He felt in her something very different. She was not like one of the maids whom he had taken in the past, nor was his feeling for her anything remotely like the sleazy lust he experienced in the arms of the scarlet women who laughed drunkenly in the dark. With those, once his lust was spent he couldn’t bear their touch or even their presence. This was not the same. It was not only her fresh loveliness, but something protective, tender, beautiful that had arisen in him. He felt breathless, and there was a deep hollow in his chest. “Kathy…Kathy.” He whispered her name knowing it was not a message or anything he wished to tell her, but a reassurance to himself that she was real, and in that moment he was upon her, in her, a part of her, and he felt strange and foolish for he could only compare it to the words in the Bible. In the Biblical sense they were one…one being. His passion was so strong, stronger than anything he had ever known before. He said her name over and over, like a schoolboy with his first love. “Kathy…Kathy…I think I’m in love with you.”
Roughly, he grabbed her heart-shaped chin and held it firm, his eyes
shimmering with excitement. “Say it! I know you feel it. Say it!” he commanded.
She licked her lips, feeling mute; she did not remember ever saying it to anyone.
Perhaps she had murmured it as a child, she couldn’t be sure. Her lips moved inaudibly.
He gri
pped her tighter and demanded, “Say it!”
Finally, in a strangled whisper, she did.
“I love you.”
He released her.
Later she heard him crying softly. The sound of his sobs made her bold, and she reached out and stroked his hair tenderly like one would quiet a child. He stilled, and they slept till morning.
When he awoke, she was gone.
Before he left, he visited the kitchen, where Frieda brusquely told him that Katherine was out. She had sent her to Bailey’s for items that she needed for tonight’s supper. He handed her a small envelope and asked her to give it to Kathy. He checked with the desk and arranged with Mr. Taylor to have Katherine off on Fridays. He paid his bill, leaving an exorbitant tip, then started the twenty-mile drive up the dirt road to his house. When he arrived at Hilltop, Elizabeth opened the door, pale and wan, dressed elegantly in a gray woolen dress. He kissed her cheek. As she chattered on about new drapes for the study, he was certain he had never loved her.
Katherine returned from the errand carrying the bags of supplies, puzzled, for Frieda had ordered items that were already in the cupboard.
Silently, they put the food away. She glanced towards the key-board; the older woman did not miss her glance. “He’s gone,” she said. “His key’s up there.”
“
Oh,” Katherine answered, and went on unloading the bags, her disappointment visible in her slumped shoulders.
Frieda fingered t
he crisp envelope in her pocket; she felt a well of protectiveness rising. She longed with all her heart to take the note and rip it to shreds, saving the girl the eventual heartbreak. She knew about men like the Judge. She had been young once – she remembered how selfish they were in taking their pleasure, and how soon it was forgotten. She reached up and touched the cameo earrings: they were all she had left.
Gathering her nerve, hope like a live flame in her eyes, Katherine finally asked, “
Did he leave anything for me?”
Frieda retorted, crisp and angry, “
What’d you expect – a ten-dollar bill?”
“
Oh no,” Katherine protested. “It wasn’t like that.”
Wearily, Frieda knew it was pointless; she would love and hope like every young girl before her.
Reaching in her pocket, she handed her the note that he had left.
Katherine grabbed the envelope and hugged it to her chest.
“Oh, thank you.”
Freda
’s face turned red and angry. “If you insist on going to his bed like a cat in heat, at least protect yourself, or you’ll be putting a brat in the orphanage in St. Louis, like I did!”
“
What?” Katherine asked in a shocked voice. “What did you say?”
Frieda ignored the girl
’s question. She went to the kitchen drawer, pulled out a sponge, and with the poultry shears cut out a square. “Now mind you, girl, put this up there, as far as you can reach when you’re with him, and don’t take it out till he’s gone.”