The Back Building (2 page)

“Father, I loathe sewing. I always prick my fingers and bleed and I can never get my stitches straight.” I held up my hands to show my battle wounds and scars that came from my needle and thread.

“Which is why you need to practice. Every woman needs to know how to sew. One day you will be married and you will have an army to sew for. It will become second nature for you as setting traps is for us, right, Boys?”

“Father, I would prefer to set traps. It is far more useful than sewing and I am good at it.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew I had just blown my own cover.

“What, pray tell, do you mean you are good at it?” His dead gaze met mine momentarily and I told him of my good fortune in catching a rabbit with my first trap.

“Well, I studied you and the boys while we were last in the woods and I came home and set a snare. I caught a rabbit, skinned it, gutted it, and gave the meat to Hetty for her family.”

My father and mother exchanged worried glances. Then father set his utensils down very carefully on either side of his plate. Thick, mucous looking gravy dripped from his knife onto the linen tablecloth but he didn’t notice or care.

“Hunting is forbidden for you. Do you understand?” Father stared at me levelly, fingers combing his beard to a point just below his chin.

“No, I don’t. I don’t understand why I am treated differently than the boys.” I refused to be intimidated and my disobedience started an ugly quarrel.

“You are our one and only daughter, Iona. We expect that you will act accordingly. You will no longer accompany us under the guise you are studying the foliage. You will stay indoors and learn how to become a home-maker and proper young lady.”

The boys snickered as I was being shamed but I’d like to see them thread a needle and sit still for hours while being forced to sew.

“There will be no more of this talk, Iona. From now on when you come home from school you will shadow your mother in all of her activities. You will sew, cook, correspond with family, press the laundry, and take up charitable work. You will no longer roam freely across the property. It appears giving you this freedom was a bad choice on our part. This is not up for discussion or debate, the matter is now closed.” Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

Father picked up his knife and fork and dove greedily into his large portion of meat and mashed potatoes. He kept his eyes on his plate, glaring at the bird in such a way that made me think if it weren’t already dead he would have killed it then and there.

I asked to be excused. Pushing back my chair and scraping it across the wooden floors, I retreated to my bedroom (Sixteen paces from table to my doorway). The lace curtains that adorned my windows billowed in the breeze. I could hear the sounds of the outdoors beckoning me. However, I knew when my father made his mind up there was no changing it. I would just have to be more clever, that is all.

I hoped and prayed Hetty was not in trouble for taking the meat I delivered to her. My mother paid Hetty to clean, not to be my friend.

Now that I was ordered indoors, my mother saw Hetty as her ally. I also reckoned she saw Hetty as a way to get me out from under her. On the days when Hetty was working, I was to follow her every move. I was to learn how to launder and press seams properly, as well as how to clean everything from the floors to the bathrooms. I studied Hetty’s movements when she worked, and watched the sweat drip down from her brow as she rocked forward and back while she scrubbed the rust colored mildew rings that stained our tub.

“Why do you do it, Hetty?”

“Do what?” she answered, not bothering to pause in her work.

“Clean. Sew. Swish your hips.” I asked while picking off the scab on my knee causing it to bleed.

“Well, first of all, I ain’t got no choice in the matter. If I wasn’t working here, I’d be working somewhere else. I got to earn my keep. I hand my money right over to my daddy and he pays our bills with it. Keeps a roof over our head. Besides, I am a woman, so why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t like it. I have no patience for sitting still and sewing or writing letters to people I don’t even know. It’s downright painful.” I showed Hetty my blisters from writing so many letters yesterday afternoon.

“Want my advice?” Hetty asked.

“Yes.”

“If I was you, I’d go on acting any way that pleased my folks so you don’t have to get no job. Not everyone is as nice as your family to the people they employ. Now listen, I also think if you gets real good at writing letters, maybe your mama will let you walk them to the post office in town. Now that would get you out the house for a little while anyway, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would, Hetty. I just feel backwards. I like being outside and snaring animals, that’s fun to me. I want to learn all about tracking and hunting. I want to land a buck and learn how to gut it and smoke the meat. I want to wrap myself in its fur and be proud that I shot it. I want to chop firewood and build things. I want to be around the horses and the other barn animals. Being inside sucks the air from my lungs, I feel trapped, like I can’t breathe.”

“How old is you, girl?” she asked her eyes growing dark with worry.

“Fifteen, why?”

“Girls your age should be starting to fancy boys, not out hunting and being wild, or thinking they can be independent. Now listen to your parents. They be good people and you be causing them stress if you don’t do as they say. I thought you like to read? Go stick your nose in a book and let me do my work or else you gonna get me in trouble.”

I grabbed my copy of
Pollyanna
by Eleanor H. Porter and sat in the drafty hallway to read as Hetty continued with her arduous chores. I couldn’t focus on the cheerful main character in the book while Hetty did all the back-breaking work. I watched as she wiped the sweat from her brow and upper lip. She finished cleaning the tub and used the towels that hung behind our door to wipe down the dirty sink before she started on the baseboards and floor. I put the book down and moved to help her with the floor. She handed me a rag and showed me how to dip, ring, and scrub starting with the dust-laden baseboards and moldings. Next we tackled the corners and then worked our way out so nothing got marred.

When we finished in the bathroom I was exhausted and my arms ached. This work was not easy. Sitting and sewing was boring but not physically taxing. I understood why my mother handed the work over to Hetty so willingly. It was worth the small amount of money she doled out weekly to have the chores done for her.

When I asked my mother about this she replied by telling me how rich people had maids who helped with the household work. The woman’s primary job, then, was to oversee the daily matters of the home. The woman decided what to put on the menu for dinner, what social engagements they should attend or host and whom they should invite. Their lives were lavish and fun and I could have that if I played my cards right. My mother told me I was an unmatched beauty, and that next year I would begin my social calendar. Until then, I needed to hone and refine my skills as a gracious young lady. She piled books on my head and commanded me to throw my shoulders back and down as I walked across the parlor ten times without dropping the novels.

“To help erect your posture.” She said leaving me to perfect the preposterous balancing act alone (Twelve paces to the edge of the rug and twelve back).

I felt badly for Hetty. When she went home it was to a clapboard house with seven siblings, three of whom she shared a room with. She didn’t have a mother anymore and took on the burden of caring for the smaller children as well as working both outside and inside the home. Often times my mother sent laundry home with Hetty so that she could earn a little something extra. Hetty always accepted the extra work and said she was saving her money for some day down the road.

Hetty was the exception to the rule. She wanted out of our small town of Ithaca, New York. She confided in me that she had a dream to be a teacher one day. A black teacher, now that would be something.

I never thought much about my grades. I assumed they were useless if I were just to be married off when I was ripe anyway. Hetty was different. She was driven by the words her mama instilled in her as a child. Her mama told her, “Hetty, you focus on a dream and you work hard to achieve it. You are one determined girl and you are gonna do fine in life.” Her mama was teaching her to be independent and not rely on a man to make her whole.

Schoolwork came easy to me. I understood numbers and was good at adding and subtracting sums. I did most of my work in my head, but when I had to showcase it for credit I followed the teacher’s diagram on how to arrive at my answer. I enjoyed reading so long as the book wasn’t about romance or ideal women.

I received glowing grades, but my teachers remarked that I had few, if any, friends in the class. They went on to suggest that perhaps my mother should arrange social engagements with my peers to help me get along better in the classroom. My mother did just that. She abhorred the notion her daughter could be socially awkward, especially when said daughter was so beautiful.

In fact, my mother told herself that it was my physical beauty that kept the other girls, my peers, from being friendly towards me. She thought they were jealous. In reality, I was happier playing marbles with the boys at recess, and I was especially good at stick-ball. I didn’t care if I skinned my knees or got my dress dirty, so the boys let me play. I was even captain once or twice and selected our players systematically ensuring a winning team.

The girls shunned me. They laughed when my hair was falling from its pony-tail, or strewn from a perfect braid after an enthusiastic game. My grass-stained knees created a stir and caused the girls to point and stare at me, then snicker as they stood huddled together in a circle, casting me out.

I didn’t care one way or another. I had Hetty for a friend now and that’s all that mattered. She called for me after school on Tuesdays and Fridays and together we walked towards my home, the Mueller farm.

On one such occasion I reached out and held fast to Hetty’s hand. It was plump and rough with calluses and caused a stir within me when I grasped it. She smiled deeply at me and we swung our hands in unison as we walked alongside the gravel road that led up to our fence. I hopped the fence and ran ahead of Hetty, not telling her my plan. I quickly set three traps in the woods that lined our property and would check them tomorrow. I had stashed a knife yesterday in the exact spot so if I caught anything I could skin it for Hetty. Then she could grab it for her journey home after work. With such a big family to feed, any meat was welcome.

***

My traps lured two squirrels and another rabbit that I knew Hetty was particularly fond of in her stews. I would ask mother if we could spend time in the garden this afternoon, pulling up some root vegetables and be sure to give my friend enough for her supper.

First, I had to kill and gut the squirrels, then the rabbit. Hetty came upon me then and she looked none too pleased.

“Child, what in the hell are you thinking? You know you gonna be in trouble for this.” She shook her head at me as she spoke.

“Hetty, these are for you, I just need to clean them real quick and you can get them on your way home for supper. I thought you’d be happy.”

“Iona, I could always use extra meat at the table, but you gonna get yourself, and me, in trouble and I don’t want none of that. No sir.”

Hetty walked away and ahead of me. I finished my job and marked the fence post nearest the catch with an ‘X’ using the chalk I stole from the classroom.

Hetty acted peculiar all afternoon, shooing me away when I tried to help her work. I noticed the next morning however that the meat I offered was gone. I knew it was Hetty that took it too, because the ‘X’ was smeared and the dirt on the ground was smoothed over to mask the blood and guts.

When I saw my friend on Friday I just smiled and ran ahead as usual. (Six hundred paces from the school doorway to my traps at the far end of our property.) Again, I had a good catch and set about gutting the animal’s entrails. I knew Hetty hated this gruesome work because she told me so when she was teaching me to cook.

“Rinse and pat your meat, like this, Iona. Iona, pay attention to what I tell you. If it’s wet when you add it to the pan it is gonna splatter all over your clothes and you can’t get no grease stains out, girl. Blood hard to get out too.” She was teaching me to cook but I was only vaguely paying attention.

She flinched when she said ‘blood’, and then she told me about the time her daddy cut his hand real bad and couldn’t prepare the chicken for dinner. Her brothers were out working so she had to wrangle the bird, snap its neck, and then pluck it dry. The next part was the worst, skinning the bird nearly made her pass out.

“It was like holding a baby child in my arms, when it was all naked like that. I ain’t never doing that again, nuh-uh. No, sir, I’d rather be hungry.”

I laughed out loud envisioning Hetty with her head turned sideways away from the chicken, her nose turned up while she plucked the bird one feather at a time.

The next day was my first scheduled ‘social engagement’. My mother entrapped her dear friend, Judith Taylor, to invite us to enjoy tea and scones with her daughter. Her daughter, Anne, was a year my senior and one of the girls that shunned me at school. (I lost count at two thousand paces from our door to theirs.)