I had sense enough to know Miss Klein had probably spent last night with the Blankenships. But even if she had, at least I had an excuse to spend the morning enjoying the newspaper instead of wiggling and shoulder twitching through a long Presbyterian sermon with my folks.
Fools in love get fool hopes. My idea was if Miss Klein hadn’t gone to Jefferson, I could save her from an afternoon of misery in her room alone. A few hours with me would surely seem better than nothing. I’d thought of taking her to ride, maybe out to my Grandpa Tweedy’s farm in Banks County. I knew I could use Papa’s car, since kinfolks were coming for Sunday dinner and would sit visiting all afternoon.
Concentrating on the newspaper wasn’t easy, nervous as I was and distracted by hope and cooking smells from Miss Hyta Mae’s boarding house next door and a squirrel in the fig tree who kept barking at a cat. Finally my eyes lit on an item that interested me:
The Rev. Mr. Jared Elder, age 70, has dug his own grave in Silver Shoal Community and lined the sides with Portland Cement. He is in good health, so expects to wait a few years before occupying the home he has prepared for his body. But he brags that when the final hour comes, his neighbors will not have to be summoned to dig a hole. Mr. Elder did a good job, but it does not look inviting.
I tore that out, and also a little boxed-off story about base pay for soldiers in different countries. I already knew American privates were drawing thirty-three dollars a month, but I never imagined that French privates got only a dollar-fifty, a soldier of the same grade in Russia thirty-two cents, and in Germany sixty-five cents. It said the British Army was paying seven dollars and sixty cents a month plus extra for service in France. Japanese privates earned eight dollars a year.
Then I noticed a little item I’d almost missed:
Miss Trulu Philpot, formerly of Athens, will be honored as Miss Liberty Bond at a gala in the nation’s capital on Saturday night, October 3, to raise money for the War Effort. This is “The Event” of Washington’s social season.
According to Miss Philpot’s mother, Mrs. Cason R. Philpot, her daughter’s “court” will include her escort, Captain Horace Luck, a U.S. Army aviator who leaves soon for France, and some of his fellow aviators.
Miss Philpot is staying with her maternal aunt and is one of this year’s most sought-after debutantes in Washington.
Lord, I was tired of Trulu intruding on everything I did.
Trulu Philpot was a modern girl with hypnotic blue eyes and golden hair. Before Sanna, I never looked twice at a dark-haired girl. If you only dated blondes, I figured, you were sure to marry a blonde. I’d loved blondes ever since Lightfoot’s hair shone like an angel’s in the sunlight as she bent over me on Blind Tillie Trestle the day the train ran over me. Tru was a vamp and flirted with everybody, but I was the only one she fell in love with, and we got engaged. It had been announced and everything.
Tru’s grandfather was a major general in the War Between the States and he was the man who built the whitecolumned mansion in Athens where Trulu and her family lived. That impressed Papa and Mama, and they were even more impressed when I said the whole Philpot family made the grand tour of Europe and Russia in 1910.
They were less impressed when they met her. She’d just got her blond hair cut short—that was sometime before Loma cut hers—and though Tru didn’t smoke that day, Mama smelled it on her clothes. “I’m sure she’s just sweet as she can be,” said Mama later, “but I don’t know, Will. I’m just not used to these modrun ladies. She don’t seem like somebody who’d be happy on a farm.”
“Oh, we’ve talked a lot about that,” I said. “I don’t reckon she’ll be sweepin’ the yard or feedin’ the chickens, but she’ll keep friends comin’ out for weekends in the country. I doubt she’ll be bored.” I guess Mama and Papa had the same unspoken thoughts I did. When I got ready to quit my job in Athens and move to Banks County, Tru’s daddy would put money into my farm. After all, she was his only child.
A flea had more common sense than I did around Tru. All my life I’d dreamed of taking over Grandpa Tweedy’s farm, but Trulu Philpot got me to promise I’d keep my job in Athens. “We can use the farm for house parties,” she said. “Everybody loves to go to the country.”
I didn’t tell Mama and Papa she was a great dancer. I’d never even told them what a great dancer I was. They thought dancing was a sin, like playing cards. Everything was a sin if you did it on Sunday—except church, Bible reading, big Sunday dinners, and swapping gossip. What Sunday afternoons were for was visiting kinfolks and neighbors. I couldn’t tell them I didn’t believe in sin anymore, or that Trulu had hold of me, body and soul, or that I was “wild” about her. Trulu was wild in the most literal sense of the word wild. She got expelled from the normal school in Athens. She didn’t plan to be a teacher anyhow.
I closed the newspaper in disgust, checked my pocket watch, and settled down to wait for a girl who was everything Trulu was not.
I didn’t have to wait long. Minutes later a big fancy touring car slowed to a stop in front of the house. I watched as the driver, a middle-aged man, escorted Sanna up the steps, set her grip down, and said gruffly, “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Miss Klein. Maybe next time things will...” His voice trailed off.
Neither one smiled. She thanked him for bringing her home, said good-bye, and watched till he drove off. Then she started for the door.
The face she turned towards me was a portrait of fatigue and misery. Circles dark as bruises made a mask around dull black eyes. “Why, Mr. Tweedy, I...I didn’t expect...”
I asked did she have a good time.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. “I had a v-very nice t-t-time.” Her lower lip quivered on the last words and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“What happened? Is he sick or something?”
She didn’t answer. Just opened the screen door and hurried in. I followed her, bringing the grip. “You forgot this,” I called as she rushed for the stairs. “What’s happened, Miss Klein?” I asked again, like it was any of my business.
“I...he...I...I t-took a b-b-bath!” she wailed, and sank down on the bottom step, sobbing. The long navy blue skirt of her travel suit hid high-buttoned shoes. Her hands hid her face. Whenever Mama or Loma used to tune up like that around Grandpa Blakeslee, he’d say, “Iffen they’s one thang I cain’t stand, it’s a woman cryin’. So hesh up!” Even when I was real young, I could see that such talk didn’t turn off any faucets. Soon as Miss Klein’s sobbing let up enough for her to hear me, I asked by way of changing the subject if the Blankenships lived in a big old Victorian house set way back on the street on the outskirts. “Tan-colored? Gold trim, brown shutters?”
With new tears running down her cheeks, she nodded. I had passed that house many a time. Papa thought it was built soon after the War Between the States by a rich man from Philadelphia. It had three stories, a tall turret on one side, gingerbread doodads on porches and balconies, and stained glass panels in the front door. I was torn between curiosity about Miss Klein’s awful bath and the hope that I could get her calmed down enough to tell me about it.
“Did the family pass?” I asked suddenly.
“Wh-what?” She looked up at me from her seat on the bottom step, kind of dazed.
“I mean, do you approve of this feller’s folks? Are they good enough for you?”
“Oh, they’re very”—she searched for the right word—“very n-n-nice.” Miss Klein wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and drew a deep, steadying breath. I could see then that she needed to talk worse than she needed to cry, so I asked her about the bath. And sure enough, it was pretty awful.
As Sanna told it, Mrs. Blankenship had come hurrying up from the back hall before she got in the house good, arms outstretched in greeting and with a big smile. “So this is Miss Klein! May I call you Sanna? I’m so glad you could come, dear.” Then Hugh introduced their “maid,” Missouri, who showed Sanna upstairs to the company room where she would sleep.
Not
saying a word, Missouri opened what looked like a small closet door, but inside was a lavatory. The bathtub was in one corner of the bedroom behind a Chinese screen. “It was the shortest, fattest little tub you ever saw,” Miss Klein told me.
“Missouri’s silence was getting on my nerves, so I said, ‘What a funny little tub!’ Without even looking at me, she answered back, ‘De drain, it ain’t been workin’ right here lately. Miz Blankenship, she keep aimin’ to call Mr. Amos, but she ain’t did it yet.’
“Mr. Tweedy, Missouri had on a white uniform and Hugh had introduced her as ‘our maid.’ But she treated me as if she knew I’d never known anybody whose help wore a white uniform and was called a maid. And I haven’t.”
“Me neither,” I lied. At Trulu’s home in Athens they had three Negro servants who wore white uniforms and got called maid. And, according to Mama, Aunt Loma claimed Mr. Vitch had a whole bunch of maids—white maids who wore black uniforms.
“She treated me as if she knew I wasn’t used to formal dinner parties.” A tiny flash of anger stifled her tears for a minute.
“Who is?” I asked, trying to make light of it. “Most folks I know never even heard of a dinner party.” That was true. Everybody in Cold Sassy used the good tablecloths and the good china, silver, and goblets on Sunday, and usually invited kinfolks or the preacher’s family or neighbors. Mama was always saying she “owed” somebody a meal, and if Mama’s watermelon pickle or sweet tomato sauce or fried eggplant was their favorite, you could count on that being on the table along with eight or ten more dishes, hot yeast rolls, and everything good you ever thought of eating. But it was just called Sunday dinner, not dinner party. If you had a party at night, it was a barbecue or fish fry.
The truth was, I almost got used to fancy dinner parties when I was engaged to Trulu, and now I confessed to one of them.
“You want to hear about it, Miss Klein? Well, I’ll tell you about mine if you’ll tell me about yours,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “This rich family in Athens, see, they needed an extra man to balance out the table. The hostess...uh, I was told it would be a black tie affair. I didn’t have one, and didn’t know it meant wear a tux either, till I got there. The hostess said never mind, so I didn’t. No point letting a little thing like that spoil your dinner. They had Negro men waiters who didn’t just wear uniforms, they wore white gloves to serve the food. And I don’t mean they just brought everything to the table for us to pass around. They served it from behind you. Here would come this meat on a silver tray or a bowl of vegetables, and a waiter would stick it between you and the next person and you had to take what they forked over. Well...”
Miss Klein was staring up at me, almost forgetting her own troubles for a moment. “Well,” I continued, “I don’t remember what all we ate, but when we got through with the main meal and the homemade ice cream, the waiter they called the butler reached between two folks and picked up the ice swan and started serving it. I don’t know why he started with me, but I took a bunch of grapes. Then he offered it to the lady next to me and she ran her fingers over the swan’s back and then wiped them real dainty on her napkin. It was quiet around the table like everybody thought I ought to put the grapes back. I’d heard of finger bowls, but I’d never seen anybody use one, much less an ice swan.”
I could tell by Miss Klein’s face that she thought I’d never get asked back again to that house. “How awful! You must have felt like crawling under the table.”
“No, I just said to the butler, ‘Hey, uh, how bout bringin’ that back? I don’t want to miss anything!’ And everybody just laughed. That was the first time everybody at the table had laughed. Before, they all were just talking quiet to who they were sittin’ next to.”
Miss Klein actually smiled. Almost laughed. “I’d have been mortified to death, Mr. Tweedy. I wish I could be like that.”
I propped an elbow on the newel post and smiled down at her. “You want to tell me what your dinner party was like? Who all came?” I was trying to prime the pump, keep her talking.
“Oh, his parents, of course. Mr. Blankenship, he’s not handsome like Hugh, but he’s lean and strong-looking. His sister and her doctor-husband were there. Neither one of them said much. I guess I didn’t say much either.” Miss Klein spoke carefully, as if assuming I really wanted to know. “And his grandmother. She was dressed like a genteel old lady, but she talked country. I liked her. Mr. Crowe was there, the law partner, a tight-looking little man with a pencil mustache. Mrs. Crowe was nice, but talked through her nose. And Judge Fuss of the circuit court was there. He was big and fat, from sitting so much, I guess. Oh, and Hugh’s Aunt Trudy from Virginia.”
Everybody had gathered in the parlor, a room full of Victorian furniture, ornately carved tables with marble tops, big electric lamps with globe shades, fringed velvet pillows on the sofa, and dark draperies. Framed photographs and watercolor country scenes covered the walls. Figurines and vases of peacock feathers or silk roses and books were crowded on the mantel, the tables, and the top of the big, heavily carved upright grand piano.
As I listened I realized that taking a bath had the worst consequences for Miss Klein but it wasn’t her only mistake. The first one was when Missouri came around with a tray full of little glasses of sherry wine and offered it to Miss Klein. Instead of just murmuring no thank you, she said, too loud, “I don’t drink.” Hugh shot her a disapproving glance.
The elegant deaf grandmother, who hadn’t heard the I-don’t-drink remark, said in a loud country voice, “Ain’t it been a hot day?”
“Ain’t it been hot all week?” echoed Judge Fuss. “If y’all think it’s hot settin’ on the screen porch, you ought a-been in my courtroom this week. Packed with everybody and his cousin and hotter’n hell. Excuse me, ladies, but it was. But maybe the court ain’t any hotter’n your classroom, Miss Klein, less’n you ain’t got but ten pupils.”
She said, “I have fifty-five pupils,” and gratefully took a bite of her little cucumber sandwich.
Judge Fuss, who was sitting next to her, leaned close and said, “I taught school. After two weeks of it I vowed if I could just get through that year I’d never set foot in a classroom again. That’s when I decided to go to law school. Law school was easy after that year.”
After some more conversation, Hugh and his daddy got up and recited “Jabberwocky” together. It was an amazing feat. They took turns with each verse, till close to the end they joined together and got faster and faster and faster.
Then Mrs. Blankenship, who had studied music in New York, played a long, heavy piece on the big piano.
The concert finally crescendoed to a stop, and before the smacks of applause died down, Missouri pushed the twin sliding doors apart and called out, “Y’all come on to supper...uh, I, whut I mean to say, DINNER IS SERVE!”
Considering it was already first dark, and the dining room lit only with candles and a circle of tiny electric bulbs in the huge crystal chandelier, it’s no wonder Miss Klein was nervous at dinner. In the soft flickering light, she wasn’t sure till she tasted it whether Missouri had served her rice or creamed corn.
“None of it was as splendid as the dinner party you went to must have been, Mr. Tweedy, but it was at least as grand as Sister Maggie’s Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner and Easter dinner put together. Everything just so glittery and beautiful. Vases of flowers everywhere. And cut-glass goblets and heavy scrolled silverware reflecting the light.”
The centerpiece was red roses in a large silver bowl, and the china was gold-and-white Spode.
Suddenly Miss Love’s big hall clock bonged the noon hour, echoing in the stairwell. We listened to the twelve strikes. Then, as the last one died away, Miss Klein blew her nose and stood up. Reaching for her leather grip, she mounted a few stairs. Paused. Leaned wearily against the wall. “I’m so t-tired, Mr. Tweedy. I didn’t sleep last night after...I was...oh, it was all just awful! I c-can’t...”
I interrupted before she could mo
ve on upstairs or go to crying again. “You mean...your bath?”
“It...wasn’t the bath.” She took a deep breath, let it out in a long shaky sigh. “It was what h-happened afterwards. Mr. Tweedy, at dinner I was actually having a good time. They are nice people, and the table conversation...well, it wasn’t highbrow the way I expected—I mean, with Hugh being so intellectual and all.” There had been a lot of talk about the war news, until Mrs. Blankenship said she’d rather hear the men talk politics than war, and Miss Klein was asked questions like where was she born and where did she go to college. Then the lawyers swapped stories about colored folks and country hicks they’d dealt with in their practice.
Maybe the people didn’t act highbrow, but the food sounded mighty la-di-dah to me. No field peas or turnip salad and cornbread on that table. Green tomato pickles, a bowl of sliced fresh tomatoes with raw onion, and a congealed fruit salad on lettuce were on the table, but, as at Trulu’s family dinner parties, the food was served to each guest from behind by Missouri and the cook, who had taken off her kitchen apron and put on a clean white maid’s uniform.
Miss Klein told me the menu like a fourth-grader reciting the names of United States Presidents: first, a shallow bowl of creamed onion soup, followed by smothered chicken, smoked ham slices, rice, baked dressing that was chock-full of Apalachicola oysters, chicken gravy, fried eggplant, a sweet potato soufflé, and a big silver vase-shaped pot of hot yeast rolls.