AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I remembered the day he brought the beautiful little tree.
Was it still there and did it feel as completely deserted and alone as I did?
14
A LETTER TO TRISHA
Despite the difficulty and the tediousness of the work I had to do at The Meadows, I found I welcomed it, for it was only when I was scrubbing and dusting, washing and polishing that I could ignore the length of the day and the slow movement of time. It was truly like a prison sentence and Miss Emily didn't hesitate to treat me like a criminal. Incarcerated by my chores within the great house ruled by this horrible, sick ogre, every day ran into the next for me, each morning, afternoon and evening unchanged and unremarkable from the one preceding it. Like simple Charlotte, I began to lose my sense of time and couldn't remember whether it was a Monday or a Tuesday. Just like her, I used Sunday as my touching stone.
The Booth sisters didn't really attend a chapel for Sunday worship. I had hoped that would have provided a way for me to get to a phone or mail a letter, but Miss Emily said that the churches had become sanctuaries for the devil.
"People don't go there to pray and confess; they go there to socialize and be seen. Imagine, getting dressed up to say your prayers. As if the good Lord could be taken in by expensive clothing, the latest styles and rich jewelry. The way some churchgoing women paint their faces with makeup, too. Why it's sacrilegious is what it is. It's the devil in them and he's laughing all the way for he has successfully invaded the house of God.
"That's why we pray at home on Sundays," she concluded.
For the Booth sisters, the chapel was an anteroom off the library. Miss Emily had even had one long and very uncomfortable bench put in there, the back of it tilted forward so we had to lean because if you were too content and relaxed, you would forget the purpose for your being there.
The bench faced a large wooden cross. There was nothing else on any of the walls. She had long candles burning on a table before us and a kerosene lamp on each of the small tables around us. The moment the service ended, she would rush around to snuff out the candles in order to conserve the wax.
Naturally, I was required to attend the service which consisted of Miss Emily reading aloud from the Bible and then all of us reciting the Lord's Prayer together. Even Luther appeared, only he stood in the back by the door, his hands folded. Miss Emily's reading took more than an hour. Charlotte would get restless and fidget, but all Miss Emily had to do was stop and glare at her for a moment and she would freeze up and look remorseful. Then Miss Emily would throw a frosty look my way to be sure I understood. It was like someone tossing a pail of ice cubes at me; it stung that much and felt that cold.
Our reward for proper behavior was a special breakfast: eggs any way we wanted them, grits and butter, and blueberry muffins. The muffins were the only food in which Miss Emily permitted sugar and very little at that. To her sugar was the same as alcohol or drugs, something that could tempt us and make us vulnerable to evil. Self-denial made us strong and kept us properly fortified.
Another Sunday event was our baths. Just as Miss Emily had described, Luther carried in a large wooden tub and set it in the center of the pantry floor. We used the pantry because it was the closest to the rear door which led to the cauldron and the hot water. Luther started heating water right after the Sunday service and after breakfast brought in pail after pail of it. Cold water was added to the hot in just the right proportion to make it tepid.
Miss Emily was the first to bathe. Charlotte and I had to wait outside the pantry until she was finished. Then Luther was instructed to bring in another half dozen pails of hot water. Charlotte was next. What I found horrendous was that we had to bathe in the same water, Miss Emily being the only one who bathed in totally clean water. She claimed she was the cleanest of the three of us and therefore would leave the least amount of dirt behind.
By the time my turn arrived, Luther had to scoop out some water and replace it with another half dozen pails of hot. The first time I took a bath like this, Miss Emily burst in on me and dipped her fingers in the water to check the water temperature. She decided it wasn't hot enough and ordered Luther to bring in an additional pail or two of the hot.
"It's hot enough," I protested.
"Nonsense," she replied. "If the water isn't warm enough, you can't get the dirt that's deep down in your skin out," she insisted.
I had to sit naked in the tub while Luther entered with the water and dumped it around me. I covered my nudity the best I could, but I saw Luther's eyes travel with interest even though his face didn't show it.
I suspected that Luther had a nip or two of something from time to time, especially during the colder days in January and February. Sometimes, when I was finishing in the kitchen, he would come in carrying wood or bringing some hot water and I could smell the scent of whiskey. If Miss Emily smelled it, she didn't say. She wasn't afraid of Luther, for she didn't hesitate to snap at him or demand things from him in a sharp tone of voice, but she seemed to sense just how far she could push him.
Why Luther worked so hard for her and Charlotte was a mystery to me; I was sure he didn't get much more than his room and board. He slept somewhere downstairs in the rear of the house, another place that was off limits to me, but I couldn't help wondering about him and asked him questions every chance I got. That meant only when he and I were alone, for if Miss Emily was present, he wouldn't so much as glance at me.
"When did The Meadows get this run-down?" I asked him one morning after he had brought in the wood. I sensed that the plantation was his favorite subject and he would talk about it more willingly than he would talk about anything else.
"Not long after Mr. Booth died," he said.
"There were some debts and most of the livestock and some equipment had to be sold off."
"What about Mrs. Booth?"
"She died years before him . . . a stomach ailment," he said.
"You work very hard, Luther. I'm sure you tried the best you could to keep it up," I said. I saw from the glint in his eyes that my words pleased him.
"I told her; I explained to her what had to be done to keep it looking nice, but appearances ain't important to her. Pretty things invite the devil is all she says. I wanted to buy some paint, but she says no to that. So it looks the way it does. I keep the machinery working as best I can and the house is still a sturdy structure."
"You're doing wonders with the little you have," I said. He grunted his appreciation.
One day I was bold enough to ask him why he remained working there.
"There's all kinds of ownership," he said. "Ownership that comes from a piece of legal paper and ownership that comes from years of workin' and livin' someplace. I'm as much part of The Meadows as anyone is," he added proudly.
