The Hired Girl (8 page)

And now I think — oh, it makes me miserable to write it — that some of what Father said was true. I don’t mean that Ma did anything wrong. I’m sure she loved us all the same, but she did favor me, and I guess the boys were jealous. I think about Luke, especially, because we used to play together when we were little things. Then he turned seven, and Father took him in hand. Luke turned nasty, seems like overnight. I missed him, but Ma told me that Luke was a big boy now and didn’t have time to play with little girls.

I never thought about it before, but that time must have been hard on Luke. One day he was a little boy, playing with me and helping Ma in the house. And the next day, he was outside with Father, not as big or as strong or as good at anything as his big brothers. Father wouldn’t have made allowances. Father doesn’t like Luke — never has.

So writing this, now, I find myself feeling sorry for Luke. But that makes me angry, too, because I’m already sorry for myself, and having to feel sorry for him seems like another cross to bear.

I can’t even pity myself in peace.

It’s almost dinnertime. I’ll have to go down soon if I’m to get a hot dinner on the table and get back up here before the men come back. I can’t face them — I know I can’t face Father, and I don’t want to see the boys.

I don’t see how this is all going to end. I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding out in my room. I guess what will happen — oh, I can see it!— is that with every day that passes, my anger will grow duller. I won’t forgive — I can never forget — but things will go back to the way they were. Except that now I have no books. No books.

I wish I could run away. When Florence Dombey’s father struck her, she ran away to Captain Cuttle — but there’s the rub; she had somewhere to go. I don’t have anywhere. I had a sort of daydream this morning, telling myself I might run away to Miss Chandler. I imagined her clasping me in her arms and saying that I could live with her from now on. I pictured myself helping her at school, teaching reading to the primary class, and ironing her pretty clothes back at the boardinghouse. One way or another, I’d make myself useful, and she’d teach me. Then I’d get a teacher’s license and pay her back. Once I had money, I’d rent a room in the same boardinghouse. We’d be together always.

It was a beautiful daydream and made me cry buckets. But when I tried to work out the details, I saw that it wouldn’t work, because Miss Chandler couldn’t take care of a runaway girl. People would criticize her, and she might get in trouble with the school board. A teacher has to be so careful.

And what would I do if I went to Miss Chandler and she sent me away? What if she told me to do my duty and honor my father, because that’s what’s in the Commandments? I think my heart would break even worse than it’s broken now.

I suppose I could run away to Great-Aunt Alma, but she’s almost as horrible as Father.

When Jane Eyre was tired of teaching at Lowood, she prayed for a new servitude. I remember that, her saying, “Grant me at least a new servitude!” She didn’t think she could attain anything better, like Liberty or Excitement or Enjoyment, but she thought she might stand a chance with a new job. Of course, it all worked out beautifully for her, because when she became a governess, she met Mr. Rochester. But I’m unluckier than Jane, because I haven’t education enough to be a governess, and besides —

I’ve been staring into space for five minutes, thinking and thinking. I’ve been thinking about a new servitude.

I’ve been thinking about six dollars a week.

Great-Aunt Alma — Philadelphia — Baltimore.

Hairpins — Ma’s old brown hat.

Stitch flounce for brown dress.

Cardboard suitcase — still in attic?

Belinda.

Saturday, July the first, 1911

I am writing this from the ladies’ waiting room, Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. I have escaped! I have achieved the first stage of my emancipation! In a little while, I will go on to Baltimore — that’s the second stage of my journey — and from thence I will begin my new life.

I have been through so many emotions today — such terrors and sorrows! such mounting hopes, such exquisite sensations of relief! I’m proud of myself because I haven’t been a coward, not one bit. My heart is racing even as I write, but I plan to go on as bravely as a heroine in a novel. For the worst is over, and I believe I have circumvented Father.

Once my mind was made up, I planned my escape with great care and cunning. I knew I’d have to look older, both to elude pursuit and to convince my future employers that I am a mature and responsible female. I unearthed the bolt of chocolate-brown twill that Father bought for next year’s dress and added a flounce to this year’s dress, so that the hem almost touches the ground. And I’ve pinned my hair up in a knot on top of my head. I felt a pang when I put up my hair, because Miss Chandler doesn’t like it when girls try to look older than they are. When Libby Watkins — who is only sixteen — put her hair on top of her head,
without even a bow,
Miss Chandler thought it was very sad. She says that girls grow up too fast nowadays. Of course when she said that, I agreed heartily, because Libby’s awful stuck-up.

But here I am, only fourteen, with my hair skewered on top of my head and held tight with thirteen hairpins. It’s uncomfortable because my hair is so heavy that the hairpins don’t anchor it, and the knot lurches when I move my head. But I look older in my long dress — goodness, I look almost matronly! Not half an hour ago, I transformed myself in the ladies’ room here. Oh, such a ladies’ room! It has pale wood, glossy and smooth as satin, and white marble around the sinks! Everything is so beautifully clean and hygienic and modern! When I compare it to what we have back home —

No. I actually was
going
to compare it, but now I’m not, because thinking about things like that is vulgar. And I’ve made up my mind: in my new life, I’m not going to be vulgar. Even though I’m going to be a servant, I’m going to cultivate my finer feelings. I will better myself and write with truth and refinement, just as Miss Chandler said.

Where was I? Oh, yes — my escape. It seems to me that God Himself is blessing my endeavor, because last night Father checked the almanac, and it turns out that rain is predicted, starting tomorrow afternoon. So of course Father’s afraid of losing the hay crop, and his whole mind is fixed on that.

I was nervous when I got up this morning, because I knew that
this was the day.
As soon as the men went out to work, I slipped upstairs to pack. I’d set everything aside: my brown dress with the new long skirt; my nightgown, toothbrush, and comb; Ma’s workbasket; my Bible; and Belinda — oh! Belinda! With what emotion did I snip open her apron on Wednesday, only to discover
twenty-nine dollars
inside! Twenty-nine dollars! My heart ached when I thought of the long years Ma must have saved to amass such a fortune. I could imagine her trying to get the thirtieth dollar — Ma had an orderly mind, and I know she would have preferred to leave me a round sum. But I guess that thirtieth dollar just wasn’t forthcoming, and she was afraid she’d run out of time.

I took fourteen of the dollars and sewed the rest back into Belinda’s apron. I brought a cardboard suitcase down from the attic — it was kind of beat-up, but the alternative was carrying my things in a pillowcase. I didn’t pack the suitcase, because I daren’t walk down the hill carrying it. I smashed it and folded it, so I could stuff it in the buckets I use for picking berries.

Then I dressed myself in last year’s sage-green dress, which is disgracefully short, and fixed my hair in two long braids. I stood before the mirror a long time — no, not a long time, because I hadn’t time to waste, but a few minutes, I’m sure. My heart was pounding, and I dreaded what I had to do next.

I hadn’t packed Ma’s embroidery scissors. I took them from the dresser and covered my bruised eye with my left hand. My fingers shook, but I brought the blades of the scissors close to the wound and snipped at Dr. Fosse’s stitches. It was hard to cut them without hurting the scabs around the wound, but I managed it:
snip — snip — snip.
The part that followed was worse — easing the scissor blade under the threads and tugging them out. The scabs held on to the threads, but the pain wasn’t as bad as I expected; it was more the idea of the thing, and only one scab broke open. The whole operation lasted only a few minutes, but by the time I was done, I was queasy and perspiring.

I wiped the scissors clean and replaced them in Ma’s basket. There was one more thing I wanted. I tiptoed into Father’s room and took Ma’s crucifix off the wall. Ma brought it with her when she married Father, and it’s hung over their bed for twenty-three years. Of course Father was pious when Ma married him, but he was Methodist-pious, not Catholic-pious. Methodists don’t set store by crucifixes; they prefer crosses without anyone on them. I know in the days to come I’ll be needing Jesus to watch over me, so I took Him and wrapped Him in my red flannel petticoat.

After that, I was ready. I walked barefoot down the lane — my shoes and stockings were in the bucket. That was the strangest part of today — gracious, it was only this morning! — walking down the hill, in plain sight of the men, and knowing that I was leaving forever. I’d announced at breakfast that I meant to spend the day picking blackberries. (The berries are ripe, too, which is another sign from God that I’m leaving home at the right time.)

I tried to walk as if it was just an ordinary day, as if my buckets were empty. I daren’t pause to look my last on the home of my childhood. A lot of it I didn’t mind leaving — the privy that I’ve cleaned a thousand times, and the chicken house, and that irritating rosebush that’s infested with something that gnarls the roses. But I felt a little sad leaving the chickens, even if they are the most boring chickens in the world. And I felt real regret about leaving my tomato plants. It looks like there’s going to be a fine crop this year.

The saddest part was walking past the clothesline — isn’t that queer? But as I walked past it, I had this sudden picture in my mind of Ma and me taking the clothes off the line. I remember us folding sheets. We’d stand apart, our arms moving like windmills, perfectly in rhythm. Then we’d walk toward each other with our arms over our heads, so that the sheet wouldn’t touch the ground. It was almost like a dance, and the sheets smelled good after a day in the sun, and we were always happy, because taking the clothes off the line meant the laundry was done for the week.

When I came to the blackberry thicket, I went straight into it, with the thorns scratching my skin. Once I was hidden from sight, I put on my shoes and stockings and took the suitcase out of the bucket and tried to bash it back into shape. It didn’t look very good, but I packed everything inside it and fastened it with a piece of string. I took the letter I’d written for Father and placed it inside the bucket, with a stone to hold it down.

It was a very aggravating letter. I meant it to be, because I don’t want Father coming after me. I told him I was going to stay with Great-Aunt Alma in Lancaster. I never thought I should be grateful to have such a disagreeable relation, but I
am
grateful, because Father hates Great-Aunt Alma and won’t want to follow me to her house. Great-Aunt Alma always says that Ma married beneath herself. She and Father had words on Ma’s wedding day and haven’t spoken since.

The way I reckon it, the men will come in around noon, and there won’t be any dinner waiting for them. Father will be furious, but he won’t want to waste time looking for me; he’ll want to get the hay in. The boys will make a nasty mess in the kitchen, fixing their own dinner, but this time I won’t have to clean it up. Nobody will find my letter until suppertime, and they’ll be too tired from haying to follow me to Lancaster.

They might not come after me at all. Father knows that Great-Aunt Alma is so horrid that nobody in her right mind could stay with her long. Very likely he’ll expect me to come home on my own accord, with my tail between my legs. By the time he finds out I never went to Great-Aunt Alma’s, I’ll be settled in Baltimore.