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"Oh, that's not nice. You shouldn't ask a lady how old she is," she chastised, suddenly sounding remarkably like Miss Emily. "It's not good etiquette," she recited.
"I'm sorry."
"But we will have a cake and you can sing 'Happy Birthday' to me. We're going to have guests, too," she added. "All the neighbors and cousins and people from as far away as Hadleyville. Even Lynchburg!"
"That's very nice. I'm looking forward to it," I said. I lit the kerosene lamp so there would be some more light and carried it to the bathroom. "I'll be right out," I said.
The door didn't open easily. I had to tug and tug on it. Once I opened it and looked in, I thought it would have been better had I not been able to open it. The bathroom consisted of a small, rust-stained sink and a toilet with a cracked toilet seat. A lump of lard soap lay on the edge of the sink. There was a dark gray towel and a dark gray washcloth on a wooden rack above the sink, but there was no mirror, no tub, no shower. The floor had a yellowish linoleum on it, but it was peeled and cracked in the corners and around the toilet.
I closed the door behind me and went to the bathroom. Then I turned on the faucet marked hot, but nothing came out of it. Water only flowed from the faucet marked cold, and that water had a brown tint to it. I let it run, but it didn't clear up. Finally, having no choice, I wet the washcloth and washed my face using the horrible soap.
I realized I had no brush for my hair. I had had a comb in my purse, but Miss Emily had taken everything last night. I ran my fingers through my hair, which already felt dirty and scraggly and then emerged from the bathroom.
Charlotte was sitting on the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She smiled up at me. Her complexion was much softer than Miss Emily's, and there was even a bit of a rosy tint in her plump cheeks.
"You had better not waste your kerosene," she said, "or Emily will yell. She won't give you more," she warned.
"This is horrible," I cried. "I'm made to stay in a room without a window and there is no light except this small kerosene lamp and the kerosene is rationed."
Charlotte stared at my outburst, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion. Then she bit down on her lower lip and shook her head emphatically from side to side.
"Emily says there's a lot of waste going on. It's the devil's work when we don't cherish what we have and when we waste. Emily says waste not, want not. That's what Emily says," she concluded.
"Well, Emily's not right. I mean, Miss Emily," I corrected quickly.
Again, Charlotte stared at me. I could see from the look in her eyes that she either didn't understand my anger or didn't want to. Suddenly, her expression changed and she looked like a little girl about to whisper a secret. She leaned toward me, first looking toward the doorway to be sure no one was there.
"Did the baby keep you up all night?" she asked.
"The baby? What baby?"
"The baby," she said, smiling. "The baby was crying and I went to give him his milk, but when I got there, he was gone," she said, holding her hands out, palms up.
"Gone? Whose baby? I didn't hear any baby."
"We better get downstairs," she said quickly and stood up. "Emily's made oatmeal for us and if it gets cold, it's our fault."
She started for the door. I sighed and turned off the kerosene lamp. It would be a minor tragedy if I left it burning, I thought.
I followed Charlotte out. She walked with short, quick steps, shuffling her slippers over the floor, and kept her hands clasped to her body with her head down like a Geisha girl. Now that there was some light pouring through the windows here and there, I could see more of the house. When I had arrived in the dark, I hadn't realized just how run-down it was inside as well as outside. This wing, my wing, looked like it hadn't been used for years. Large cobwebs hung between the ceilings and the walls and through the chandeliers. The walls themselves looked caked with dust.
Here and there along the corridor were pieces of hall furniture: a dark oak chest, hardwood benches too uncomfortable looking to be sat upon, and upholstered chairs that looked like great dust collectors. Every dozen yards or so, there was an old painting, most depicting classic southern scenes: slaves picking cotton, a plantation owner sitting upon a great white steed and looking out over his acres and acres of crops, and pictures of young women holding parasols and talking to handsome young suitors on great, green lawns or in front of gazebos.
When we turned toward the stairway, the paintings on the walls were all portraits of ancestors—women with pinched faces dressed in dark clothes, their hair pinned back tightly, men unsmiling and stern, and an occasional portrait of a child who had obviously been forced to sit still and pose. At the end of this corridor, right before the stairway, stood a broken grandfather clock, missing its minute hand.
When we reached the stairs, I looked down the opposite corridor toward the west wing where Miss Emily and Charlotte lived in the great house. The hallways were cleaner and brighter and there were many more pictures. That side would get most of the sunlight, I thought. Why couldn't she find a place for me there?
Charlotte looked up from the stairs to be sure I was following and then continued quickly. I felt silly walking in my boots and wearing a gown that looked like a hospital gown, but what was Ito do? Miss Emily had taken my clothes. I hurried along to catch up and turned at the foot of the stairs to follow Charlotte through a wide doorway.
The first room was a great dining room with a long, dark oak table and ten chairs. It had a light brown rug and a wall of windows which made it one of the brightest rooms I had seen. Above the table hung a large chandelier. There was a matching dark oak hutch in one corner and I could see dishes and ceramic figurines within. They still had some nice things here and there, I thought.
"Come along. Hurry," Charlotte said in the far doorway. I followed her into the kitchen.
It looked very little changed from what it must have been when the house had first been built. There was even a hand pump beside the sink instead of a faucet. There was a cast-iron stove for heat and cooking, a light oak table and six chairs in one corner and a counter beside the sink with cast-iron pots and pans dangling from hooks. The windows were covered with thin, white cotton curtains and the refrigerator was an old ice box.
Set on the table were three bowls of hot oatmeal and one piece of bread and an orange beside each. The place setting contained a single soup spoon and a napkin.
Miss Emily stepped out of the pantry, which was at the rear of the kitchen. Through the window in the doorway beside it, I could see some of the rear of the house: a bald field with an old wagon in the center and the corner of a barn.
