The Women (66 page)
The dishwater man rotated his toe. Gertrude stared at the carpet. In his head, sailing high in quick blooming bursts, were the rockets people sent up arcing over the night-black void of the sea on Empire Day,
pop-pop, pop-pop.
And the mistress—Borthwick, Mrs. Borthwick, was that what the dishwater man had called her?—puffed herself up like a crapaud frog and let her voice rise two levels. “And,
you,
” she said, pinning him with her eyes while the words rattled like steel blades in her throat, “you will not talk to her in that tone of voice, not in my presence, not in this house.” There was a silence. The earth stopped dead, transfixed on its axis. “Is that understood?”
pop-pop, pop-pop.
And the mistress—Borthwick, Mrs. Borthwick, was that what the dishwater man had called her?—puffed herself up like a crapaud frog and let her voice rise two levels. “And,
you,
” she said, pinning him with her eyes while the words rattled like steel blades in her throat, “you will not talk to her in that tone of voice, not in my presence, not in this house.” There was a silence. The earth stopped dead, transfixed on its axis. “Is that understood?”
He could have said anything, could have lost all he’d wanted and dreamed of right then and there and found himself back on that yellow-hairedtrain again, disgraced and disrespected, his poor black peasant Bajan wife crying on his shoulder, but all he said was, “Yes, ma’am.”
Out beyond her, beyond the carpet and the bookcase and the lobster-trap chair and all the rest, the sun suddenly exploded through the clouds in a fiery pillar that silhouetted her like some unearthly being, and he saw that sun and that room and the look on her face and fought himself down. He could never be sure afterward but he might even have bowed his head in the way those people in the bushes bowed and ducked away into the shadows when Mr. Brighton or one of the gentlemen or ladies sitting there under their parasols looked out across the lawn. He might have bowed his head. And for what? For what?
He watched her face, saw her arm rise and fall in a dismissive sweep as she ordered the dishwater man to take them off to the kitchen, and then they were moving, he and his wife, following the twitch of the dishwater man’s shoulders across the floor and out of the room. And what did she say, Mrs. Borthwick-Wright, Mrs. High-and-Mighty, in her voice of scorn?
“Woman,”
she spat, two syllables flung at his back as he retreated and all the while the rockets going off in his head,
pop-pop, pop-pop.
“Woman,”
she spat, two syllables flung at his back as he retreated and all the while the rockets going off in his head,
pop-pop, pop-pop.
She took a dislike to him the minute she laid eyes on him, and she hated to admit it to herself, hated to admit any kind of prejudice, but there it was. It wasn’t his looks. He was a good-looking Negro, light-skinned, with proportional lips and deep chocolate eyes, of medium height, slim and self-contained. No, it was something in his demeanor, the way he held himself, rigid as a pole, as if he’d just been shocked with an electric wire and was waiting for his torturer to throw the switch and shock him again. And the way he looked at her with a kind of cool insolence, as if she were the one applying for the job, as if she had to meet his expectations. She’d never seen anything quite like it, though admittedly her experience of Negroes was limited—she’d seen them in people’s homes serving at table and the like, and she’d encountered a handful of them when she was a librarian in Port Huron in the days before Edwin, but those Negroes were the ones she approved of, hard-working people educating themselves on their own time. Or at least trying.
And yes, this one—Carleton, Julian Carleton—was well-spoken, as Frank had said, and he seemed intelligent, perhaps too intelligent for his own good, but that he attempted to speak for his wife, to take the words out of her mouth, bully her right there in his first interview in the house, simply infuriated her. She had half a mind to telegram to Frank and tell him to find her someone else because she was sending them right back to Chicago on the morning train, but she didn’t. She needed them, needed somebody, anybody, to get her out of the kitchen and back to Ellen Key and her studies and her writing—the life of the mind instead of the scrub brush and the washboard—and perhaps she was being hasty in her judgment. The wife—Gertrude—had seemed sweet and shy. And so young. If Carleton was twenty-five or thereabout, she must have been five years younger, a girl still, eager to please, with real kindness in her eyes—there was a moment there when she actually thought the girl was going to curtsey to her. Her features were regular, almost pretty but for the exaggerated lips, her skin so dark and exotic it seemed to drink up the light. And the way she spoke, with the broad open vowels and the tripping syncopated rhythm that flowed like a song, like a sweet tropical melody played out spontaneously just for her, was perfectly charming.
But could she cook? That would be the test. If she could cook—and the husband serve the way Frank had assured her he could, serve at table and take up the household chores with some of the rigor that had held him frozen there on the carpet—then she was sure she’d be able to get over the awkwardness of that first impression. It was probably nothing, she told herself. He was uneasy, that was all. Trying to make a good impression. She couldn’t really blame him for that, could she?
She settled back in her chair. Took up her book again. Before long, she was immersed in her work, the afternoon absorbed in the flow of her hand and the rush of sentiments crowding her mind, and if she thought of the new help at all it was in the silences. Somewhere, at the margins of her consciousness, she might have heard a door open and shut again, might have detected the smallest sounds drifting in from the kitchen—a drawer sliding out, a knife at the whetstone, water running in the sink—but it was the long intervals of silence that made her feel that the house was in good hands, nothing amiss, the routine establishing itself by increments from one tranquil moment to the next. She took her dinner privately that evening, out on the little screened-in porch overlooking the lake, and he set the table and served her properly, without any fuss or a single wasted word. And the food—vegetable soup, tomato salad, a steak the wife had rubbed with a combination of exotic spices that managed to be piquant and savory at the same time, cob corn, potatoes braised in the pan with rosemary from the garden and a dessert of custard flavored with vanilla bean and cinnamon—was better than anything she’d tasted since she’d come back from Europe. She took two glasses of wine with her meal and had a brandy afterward, and for the longest while she just sat there staring off into the distance while the ducks and geese settled in on the lake and the shadows deepened and the fireflies traced their punctuated patterns across the night.
The next morning she went to the kitchen after breakfast (which had been equally delicious and just as thoughtfully prepared as the previous night’s dinner), thinking to praise the cook and encourage her too—perhaps even engage in a little small talk. She was curious. She wanted to hear what the girl had to say, listen to her opinions, discover something of her life and where she’d come from. Barbados. It sounded so exotic. And the way she talked—
bee’steak, pig he feet
—was like a tonic to her, sweet and refreshing. And different. Above all, different.
bee’steak, pig he feet
—was like a tonic to her, sweet and refreshing. And different. Above all, different.
She eased open the door, a little speech forming in her head—
Gertrude, I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am
—and stopped dead. The place had been transformed. Where before the room had been close and rancid with the must of last year’s bacon and drippings immemorial, a real farm kitchen, now the windows were thrust open onto the courtyard and there was a scent of that piquant spice, of fresh fruit and vanilla. And everything had been rearranged, the cluttered oak table gone, the pots sorted by size, the fry pans hanging from hooks over the stove and shining like jewels, every last plate and saucer and piece of cutlery washed and dried and tucked away in the cupboard and not a fly to be seen anywhere. Gertrude was down on her knees, polishing the brass handles of the stove, and Carleton, up on a stepladder, was scrubbing the ceiling—the ceiling!—with long sweeping strokes of his arms, as if he were dancing in place with an invisible partner. She didn’t know what to say. Both of them were aware of her—they had to be—but they gave no notice of it. They went on with what they were doing, utterly engrossed, and she stood there a moment, feeling like a stranger in her own house, until she softly pulled the door to and went on down the hall to her books.
Gertrude, I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am
—and stopped dead. The place had been transformed. Where before the room had been close and rancid with the must of last year’s bacon and drippings immemorial, a real farm kitchen, now the windows were thrust open onto the courtyard and there was a scent of that piquant spice, of fresh fruit and vanilla. And everything had been rearranged, the cluttered oak table gone, the pots sorted by size, the fry pans hanging from hooks over the stove and shining like jewels, every last plate and saucer and piece of cutlery washed and dried and tucked away in the cupboard and not a fly to be seen anywhere. Gertrude was down on her knees, polishing the brass handles of the stove, and Carleton, up on a stepladder, was scrubbing the ceiling—the ceiling!—with long sweeping strokes of his arms, as if he were dancing in place with an invisible partner. She didn’t know what to say. Both of them were aware of her—they had to be—but they gave no notice of it. They went on with what they were doing, utterly engrossed, and she stood there a moment, feeling like a stranger in her own house, until she softly pulled the door to and went on down the hall to her books.
That evening, she had Diana Milquist and her husband, Alvin, to dinner and asked Frank’s draftsmen, Emil Brodelle and Herbert Fritz, if they would join them to round out the party. She’d struggled with her work through the morning and into the afternoon, unable to concentrate, her thoughts repeatedly drifting away from Ellen Key and the woman movement to the Barbadians in the kitchen, the wonder of them, the strangeness,
Negroes in the house and who were they, what were they thinking, what sort of bond held
their
marriage together?
Though she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, the fact was that with Frank gone she was growing bored. She’d begun her book with a thrill of anticipation, in full command of her materials and with an outline so considered and thorough it had stretched to some thirty pages, and yet now that she’d progressed from her introduction through the opening chapters, a certain sameness had begun to creep into the writing—and worse, each sentence seemed to erect a wall against the next, so that she found herself manipulating phrases instead of ideas till all the freshness had gone out of the task.
Negroes in the house and who were they, what were they thinking, what sort of bond held
their
marriage together?
Though she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, the fact was that with Frank gone she was growing bored. She’d begun her book with a thrill of anticipation, in full command of her materials and with an outline so considered and thorough it had stretched to some thirty pages, and yet now that she’d progressed from her introduction through the opening chapters, a certain sameness had begun to creep into the writing—and worse, each sentence seemed to erect a wall against the next, so that she found herself manipulating phrases instead of ideas till all the freshness had gone out of the task.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Here she’d chafed against the burden of the housework and cooking, and now that the Carletons were in charge and she had all the time in the world to devote to herself she couldn’t seem to recapture her enthusiasm. But, of course, all writers—even Ellen Key—had to struggle through the dry spots, and she would persist, absolutely, there was no question about that, and she had Frank to look forward to. Frank always enlivened things. Day after tomorrow, that was when he said he’d be back, for a few days at least. And in a matter of weeks, Martha and John would be there with her and everything would be new again.
If anything, the meal was even better than the previous night’s. She’d suggested a menu—roast chicken stuffed with cornbread, white biscuits and gravy, boiled ham, deviled eggs, potato salad and vegetables, sliced melon, perhaps a peach cobbler or blackberry pie—and Gertrude had played her own variations on it. Masterfully. And her husband had impressed everyone with the way he’d served at table, holding himself with the unassailable dignity you’d expect from the head waiter at the finest restaurant in Chicago or New York, attentive to the smallest needs, silently whisking one dish away even as the next was set down in its place. Herbert Fritz—just nineteen and living at home with his widowed mother before Frank brought him and Emil Brodelle out from Chicago and Milwaukee, respectively
169
—had obviously never experienced anything like it. He was on his best behavior, shooting a quick glance round the table each time he was served as if afraid someone would find him out and snatch the plate away, and he ate with a growing and barely concealed enthusiasm, compulsively bringing the napkin to his lips beneath the trace of mustache he was straining to cultivate. “This is simply delicious,” he kept saying throughout the meal, first to himself and then to the table at large. “Extraordinary. Really extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted—”
169
—had obviously never experienced anything like it. He was on his best behavior, shooting a quick glance round the table each time he was served as if afraid someone would find him out and snatch the plate away, and he ate with a growing and barely concealed enthusiasm, compulsively bringing the napkin to his lips beneath the trace of mustache he was straining to cultivate. “This is simply delicious,” he kept saying throughout the meal, first to himself and then to the table at large. “Extraordinary. Really extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted—”
“Ever?” Brodelle put in. Emil was just thirty, but he liked to think of himself as a man of experience—he tended to lord it above the others when Frank was absent, and she could hardly blame him. There wasn’t much for him out here in the country, apart from a trip to the tavern or a solemn horseback ride along the dusty roads. He had a ready wit and a range of learning rare among draftsmen, who tended to be narrowly focused and—well, to her mind at any rate—dull. There was a moment of silence. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he went on. “Aren’t you afraid that comment just might possibly be construed as an implied criticism of our hostess”—and here he smiled at her—“who’s done such a heroic job in the kitchen ever since the last—not a whit lamented—
chef de cuisine
left us?”
chef de cuisine
left us?”
The boy ducked his head. When he glanced up at her, he was blushing. “I didn’t mean—I was only—”
And it was all right. Everyone laughed. Except Carleton, of course, who remained in character, hovering against the wall like a revenant in his white jacket.
“Yes,” she said, laughing still, “I know what you mean. Our new cook is such a paragon”—she was conscious of using Carleton’s term, wondering vaguely if it would please him—“I’m afraid we can all look forward to putting on weight up here at Taliesin.” She raised her glass. “Compliments to the chef!” she said, and everyone, even Alvin, whose profession seemed to have made him dubious about all things oral, lifted a glass in homage. She felt expansive, contented. “Well,” she said, setting down the empty glass, “is anyone ready for dessert?”
She took a long walk next morning, then settled into work. Despite the heat—it must have been ninety by half-past ten—she found she was able to see the book afresh and resolve some of the problems that had dogged her the day before. She read over the completed pages, making small emendations— and they truly
were
good, the prose sharper and clearer than anything she’d been able to extract from Ellen Key, whose language had a tendency to bog down in a Swedish morass of misplaced modifiers and parenthetical phrases. She was in another place altogether, moving forward with a subtle refinement of Key’s ideas on the evolution of love and the way men often desire a woman before they know her while women are too often obligated to develop sexual desire after the fact, thinking of Frank, Frank and her, and how she’d been the one to reveal herself first, a rainy autumn day, the children in school and Edwin at the office and she in her robe and nothing under it—when she became aware that someone else was in the room with her.
were
good, the prose sharper and clearer than anything she’d been able to extract from Ellen Key, whose language had a tendency to bog down in a Swedish morass of misplaced modifiers and parenthetical phrases. She was in another place altogether, moving forward with a subtle refinement of Key’s ideas on the evolution of love and the way men often desire a woman before they know her while women are too often obligated to develop sexual desire after the fact, thinking of Frank, Frank and her, and how she’d been the one to reveal herself first, a rainy autumn day, the children in school and Edwin at the office and she in her robe and nothing under it—when she became aware that someone else was in the room with her.
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