CHAPTER 9
Allison had just taken her seat at the breakfast table when Hattie came in bearing a platter of ham steak and fried eggs. The family was all present except for Margot, who had set off early for the hospital. Uncle Dickson looked up, smiling at Hattie, even setting down his paper to speak to her.
“You’re looking cheerful, Hattie!” he said, sounding unusually cheerful himself. “I suppose Margot told you the news.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Dickson, oh, yes. Praise the Lord! This is a fine day indeed.” Hattie carried the platter to his end of the table and set it at his right hand. “I’m serving you all this morning so the twins can move Miss Margot’s things back to her own bedroom and get that apartment shipshape.”
Dick chuckled at this. “I’m sure you’ve kept it shipshape all along, Hattie.”
Dickson served himself, and Hattie lifted the tray to carry it to Aunt Edith. “Well, we been trying, Mr. Dick, but you know how Miss Margot is. She don’t like a fuss.”
Ramona said, “It will be such a relief to have everyone back where they belong.”
Allison said, “Cousin Ramona, what is it? What’s the good news?”
Ramona smiled at Allison as she served herself from Hattie’s platter. She took two eggs and a thick slice of ham. Allison watched her. No one raised their eyebrows when Cousin Ramona took toast for her plate, or potatoes, or enjoyed her dessert. She just—just ate. It was curious.
As Hattie moved on, Ramona said, “Blake is coming home today. Our butler. He’s been gone more than a year.”
Allison wanted to ask where he’d been, but she wasn’t sure that was a polite question. Maybe he’d been in jail or something, and no one wanted to talk about it.
“We have to remember,” Uncle Dickson said, “that Margot says he’s not to work too hard. He may not be strong yet.”
Oh. He’d been ill. Allison wondered what had been wrong with him.
“What about the Essex?” Dick said. “Are you going to keep driving, Father, or is Blake allowed to do that?”
“I made a point of asking Henderson about that,” Dickson said. “He thinks if Blake feels up to it, he can drive.”
“Won’t that be nice!” Ramona said. “To have the motorcar to take us places again. I’ve missed that.” She turned to her left and said, “Won’t that be nice, Mother Benedict?”
Hattie had just brought the tray to Aunt Edith and was holding it out to her with a hopeful look. Aunt Edith took an egg and the smallest piece of ham, and murmured vaguely, “The motorcar? Oh, no, thank you. I don’t want to ride in the motorcar.”
There was a long, embarrassed silence around the table, broken only by Hattie coming to Allison and offering her the tray. Allison took an egg and slid it onto her plate. Hattie said under her breath, “Just a bit of ham, Miss Allison. You can manage that.” Allison’s cheeks warmed, but she took a piece of ham, putting it on her plate next to the egg. Hattie said, “There you go, miss. That’s good ham. You gonna like that.”
Allison had been careful to make a good show of eating something at every meal, especially when Cousin Margot was there. She suspected Margot of colluding with Hattie to keep track of what she consumed. Every day she looked in her mirror, watching for signs of bigger thighs and a swelling stomach. Ruby had caught her at that just yesterday, caught her pinching the skin around her ribs. Ruby said, “Miss Allison, what are you worrying about? You’re bony as a bird!” Allison had just shaken her head. She made a point of not telling Ruby any of her private thoughts, because she was sure they went straight to Papa.
Papa thought he knew all the secrets. He was wrong, though. He didn’t know about the spoon.
Allison’s mother had refused to send the plaid dress back to Magnin’s. Though the gown for that weekend’s ball still fit, Adelaide announced that Allison should take the incident of the plaid frock as a warning. She bade Allison take off the blue-and-silver dress and restore its cotton covering, then said, “Wait here. I’m going to bring you something.”
Allison was seated at her dressing table, pulling on long black stockings, when her mother returned. Allison glanced up, searching her mother’s hands for whatever it was she meant to bring her. Adelaide shook her head as she shut the bedroom door and turned the lock on the inside. She crossed the room again, moved the ewer from the bedside stand, and lifted the basin to carry it to the dressing table. From her pocket she drew a small silver spoon and laid it beside the basin. Allison watched, mystified.
Adelaide said, in a hushed, almost reverent tone, “This is a secret, Allison. A woman’s secret. You’re old enough to know some things.”
Beginning to feel uneasy, Allison said, “What things, Mother?”
Adelaide’s painted lips curled down at the corners, pulling long, shallow creases in her cheeks. “It’s not easy being a woman in this world. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true. Our lot in life is to take care of men, to do what they want, to have their babies and raise them. The men never think about what we might feel, about how they hurt us, about how hard it is to keep them happy.”
“Why are we expected to keep—”
Adelaide put up her hand. “Men,” she said, “are slaves to their desires. They can’t help it, and we have to live with it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Allison fidgeted uneasily with the lacy covering of the dressing table. “What does any of this have to do with that spoon?”
Adelaide’s lips pressed so tight they nearly disappeared as she drew a noisy breath through her nostrils. “Listen to me,” she said. “You listen to me, Allison. I know you think you’re smart, but I can tell you, it’s one of God’s little jokes to give women brains. They don’t serve us very well, not the way the world is.” She smoothed her dress over her flat stomach. “The only thing we have to work with, the only weapon we have, is our looks. Our—” Her voice lowered as if she were speaking a dirty word. “Our bodies.”
“Mother.” Allison gazed up at her mother, and a chill crept through her middle. She lowered her voice, too, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “Mother—our bodies?”
“I’m afraid so,” Adelaide said, with a tiny shudder. “But we don’t have to talk about that. You’ll find out when you’re married. That’s soon enough. That’s when you’ll understand how important it is to a man.”
“How important what is?”
Her mother glanced away. “I don’t like discussing this, Allison.”
“I don’t even know what you—”
Her mother sighed. “This is difficult for me, but if I don’t tell you, I feel I’m failing in my responsibility.” She turned a bleak gaze toward the window, where a San Francisco fog curled in wisps past the glass. “I saw it with my own parents, and I vowed I would never let it happen to me.”
“What? Gaining weight?”
Adelaide blinked and looked back at Allison, startled and frowning. “Of course! Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”
“Mother! I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about holding on to your husband. About not letting yourself go so that he looks elsewhere for his—” Her cheeks colored, and she averted her gaze to the window once again. “For his needs.” She cleared her throat and said, “I’m sorry to be indelicate with you, Allison, but this is the truth of a woman’s life.” She coughed again. “My mother—your grandmother—got very stout, and my father was famous for his mistresses.”
“Grandfather?” Allison couldn’t help a burst of laughter. “He’s so old! And he’s awfully stout himself, isn’t he?”
“He wasn’t always old,” Adelaide said. “Nor so stout. Everyone knew what he was doing, and he threw it in Mother’s face every chance he got. He drove her into an early grave, and I swore I would never let Henry do the same to me.” She reached for the spoon and held it out on her palm. “I’m going to show you how to do this, Allison. It won’t be pleasant, but I’ll only have to show you once. You’ll thank me one day.”
To say that it had been unpleasant was an understatement, Allison thought. In all her life she had never seen her mother undressed. She had never observed her in the bathroom or even in the bath. They were a private family, and such things were considered improper and distasteful for people of their class. Yet that day, her mother had pulled another spoon out of her pocket—her own, personal spoon, the silver nearly destroyed from years of use—and put it down her throat. She had vomited into the basin, a nasty thin stream that made Allison’s own stomach spasm and her gorge rise in her throat. Afterward, Adelaide wiped her mouth daintily, cleaned the spoon, and took the basin to the bathroom to empty it. Throughout all of this Allison gazed at her in horror, eyes wide and throat convulsing with nausea.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Adelaide said when she returned from the bathroom. “I felt it was necessary.” She had rinsed the basin and wiped it dry, and she tossed the towel and her handkerchief into the laundry hamper beside the wardrobe. “Believe me, it’s nothing compared with the mess of giving birth.”
Allison was speechless. Even now, more than a year later, the memory made her skin crawl. When she tried the whole thing for herself, she was no less repelled. It was effective, that she couldn’t deny, but it was a hideous practice. She loathed it.
Ultimately, to her mother’s satisfaction, Allison fit into the plaid frock. The early victory went to Adelaide.
What Adelaide didn’t understand, however, was that it was only the first skirmish. A prolonged conflict was to follow, and Allison would fight for her own side with all her strength.
She decided early on that not eating was much simpler than using the silver spoon. Why put food in her stomach only to bring it up again? Meals in her parents’ overdecorated dining room were more about formality than food in any case. She found an added benefit, a private and unexpected satisfaction, in watching her father scowl over her uneaten meals, then turn an accusing look to her mother.
Adelaide didn’t understand at first. She didn’t have, Allison thought, the real subtlety of mind to wage this kind of war. She didn’t comprehend any new tactic.
Allison fit into the plaid frock, but before long, all her other gowns had to be altered, taken in at the hips and bust, tightened at the waistline. Her father, who rarely noticed much about Allison except for the occasional tennis trophy, growled one evening that she looked more like a boy than a girl. He said, pointing a thick finger at her untouched serving of fried fish and buttered rice, “Eat something, for Christ’s sake, Allison.”
Allison said in a mild voice, “I’m just not hungry, Papa,” even as she shot her mother a triumphant glance.
Adelaide had frowned, the thin skin of her face crumpling like dry paper. She looked down at Allison’s plate, and then, her eyes full of suspicion, up at her husband. His attention was already directed elsewhere, but Adelaide must have understood, at that precise moment, just what was happening. The battle was joined, and this time, the advantage was all Allison’s.
That had been a full year earlier. Allison had never intended to stop eating entirely, but somehow, once she got started, it was a difficult custom to break. Her empty stomach, the flatness of her bosom, even the persistent hunger she felt, had all become habitual. It was comforting in the way that any routine, however difficult, can be comforting. Even now, away from her adversary’s eye, she sat at the breakfast table of Benedict Hall, cutting a piece of ham steak into the smallest possible pieces, moving them this way and that, managing to mix the ham and the egg so it looked as if she had eaten most of it. She was fiercely hungry, but she tried to quench her appetite with coffee. She let the ham sit in the broken egg until it cooled and congealed, and no longer held any appeal. When Hattie returned to clear the plates, she said, “Now, Miss Allison, I’ll just let you work on that for a bit.” Everyone else had finished, and Hattie carried the stack of used plates out of the dining room, backing through the swinging door and bustling away with her long apron flying around her like white wings.
No one else seemed to notice that Allison hadn’t eaten anything. Uncle Dickson and Cousin Dick rose from the table and headed out to collect hats and coats and briefcases to go to their office. Aunt Edith stood up, and Cousin Ramona hurried to her side to help her out of the dining room. In the doorway, Ramona cast a glance over her shoulder. “Oh, Allison, I’m sorry to leave you on your own. I need to check that the twins have Margot’s room ready, and I want to arrange to have her telephone moved.”
Allison said, “Can I help with anything?”
Ramona was already halfway through the door with her hand under her mother-in-law’s arm. “That’s sweet, dear. If I think of something, I’ll send Ruby for you.”
Then she was gone, leaving Allison alone at the dining table, staring at the plate of cold ham and crusted egg. The place set at Aunt Edith’s right hand was still there, as it was at every meal, clean plate and unused flatware, a crystal glass, a neatly folded napkin. Her own dirty plate looked even more revolting by comparison.
She heard the quick patter of feet on the main staircase, a sound she had learned was the twins, working side by side. She heard the bang of the big front door as Uncle Dickson and Dick left the house, and a moment later the purr of the Essex pulling out of the garage and down the driveway to the street. A snatch of song wafted from the kitchen, where Hattie was doing the dishes. Allison rose, pushing her chair back, then shifting it into place beneath the table. She would have liked to scrape her plate clean, but that would mean carrying it into the kitchen, and she didn’t know if . . .
She didn’t realize the singing had stopped. As she debated with herself over the plate, the door to the dining room opened and Hattie looked in. She didn’t notice Allison standing uncertainly behind her chair. Her gaze went to the clean place setting, and a sudden, distressing look of grief dragged at her face, making her eyes droop and her round cheeks sag. Allison, seeing, caught a little breath of dismay. Hattie started, turning in surprise. Her eyes had gone red, with generous tears forming in the corners.
Allison stammered, “Oh, I’m sorry, Hattie, I—I just—”
Hattie snatched up the hem of her apron and pressed it to her face. In a muffled voice she said, “Never you mind, Miss Allison. Never you mind.”
Allison backed away from the table, her hands twisting in the material of her dress and her heels catching on the edge of the rug. She had never seen a servant weep that she could remember, and this one was so strange to her, with her dark skin and her broad accent. She couldn’t think what to do, or what she could say. Behind the apron, Hattie sobbed twice, and Allison’s heart ached, as if Hattie’s grief were communicable, like a cold or influenza. She wanted to escape the room, but that seemed awfully insensitive, even if Hattie was a servant, and a colored one at that.
After an uncomfortable few seconds, she found herself saying, “Hattie, should I—do you want me to call someone?”
The cook choked back another hard sob and wiped her eyes with her apron. When she let it fall again, Allison could see how her chin trembled with the effort to stop her tears. She was still searching for words when Hattie said, in a voice gone too high, “No, Miss Allison. I’m awful sorry—sometimes I get to thinking about Mr. Preston—” She bit down on her lower lip, shaking her head helplessly as tears slid freely down her face, sparkling against her mahogany cheeks.
Allison stood frozen, her back to the window, the weeping cook between her and the door. She fought an impulse to run to Hattie and take her hands. Her mother had taught her never, never to be familiar with servants. “They won’t respect you,” Adelaide had said, many times. “It’s important to keep your distance.” That was easy with Ruby. If Ruby even had personal feelings, Allison was unaware of them. But this woman, so much older, so alien to Allison, looked as if her heart would break, and Allison felt as if her own heart would fall to pieces in sympathy.
At last Hattie took a long, shivery breath. She pulled her slumping shoulders back as if that were all she needed to do to restore herself to calm, and she smoothed her tear-damp apron with both hands. “Oh, my lands, I’m so sorry, Miss Allison. What you must think of me.”
Allison took a step to the side, hoping Hattie would move away from the door and let her pass. “It’s perfectly all right,” she heard herself say. Her voice sounded so cool in her own ears, so much like her mother’s voice, that she could have wept herself. She said, awkwardly, “I was just leaving, to go—to go upstairs.”
Hattie sniffed noisily. “You go on, Miss Allison. Never mind me, I’m just feelin’ teary today.”
Allison took another sidestep, but she couldn’t help saying, “I thought you were happy, because your—because the—Blake—is coming back.”
“Oh, yes, I am, I am,” Hattie said, starting to sound more like herself. “I’m so happy about that, it’s almost like—” She stopped, looking at the ruins of the breakfast Allison had barely touched. “Oh,” she said. She started around the table and picked up the plate in both hands, gazing sadly down at it as if it were the cause of her tears. “I guess you just don’t like what I cook, do you?”
A rush of guilt swept over Allison, joining the throng of her other jumbled emotions. She said desperately, “Oh, no, it’s not that at all.”
“I wasn’t s’posed to cook fancy food,” Hattie said heavily. “I’m just a plain cook, but I needed this job, and Mrs. Edith—”
“No, Hattie, please. Of course I like what you cook. I just . . . I don’t . . .” She couldn’t think how to finish the sentence.
Hattie looked at her, eyebrows raised. She held up the untouched plate as if they were in a courtroom and it was evidence of some crime. “Now, Miss Allison,” she said in a voice so kind Allison’s heart twisted. “What would your mama say about this?”
Allison had taken another step toward the door, but she stopped, folding her arms around herself and looking full into the servant’s eyes. She blurted, “Hattie, my mama would be ever so pleased to see that plate. You can trust me on that.”
Hattie’s mouth opened in surprise. Allison knew she could never explain, nor could she take the words back. She whirled, and blundered out of the dining room. She bumped the door with her shoulder, and caught her foot on the doorjamb, but a moment later she was flying up the staircase, dashing down the hall to her bedroom. She shut herself inside and stood for long moments breathing hard.
She hardly knew what had just happened, what she had witnessed, what she had said. She had almost confessed everything to a Negro cook!
She didn’t understand anything.
Allison spent the morning huddled in the window seat of her bedroom and staring disconsolately into the gloom of the November day. A shifting layer of gray clouds spat rain from time to time. She was accustomed to the fogs of San Francisco, but here the days were so short, the daylight so dim, that she felt as if she were living under a blanket. After the strangeness of the morning, she felt like a saucepan on the boil, the lid rattling and bouncing under the pressure. Every so often she jumped up to pace the room, to pick up a book and lay it down again, to riffle through the dresses in the wardrobe. She thrust her hands through her hair and then had to paste the curls down again. She was ravenously hungry, but she didn’t want to eat. Her tennis racket stood in one corner, but she had no one to play with, and even if she had, this persistent rain would make it impossible.
She heard the purr of the Essex’s motor as it pulled into the drive and around the house to the garage, and flew to the window. Uncle Dickson pulled the motorcar inside, and through the open door she watched Cousin Margot help a colored man out of the back passenger seat and around to the door that led to the garage apartment. Allison leaned close to the rain-streaked glass to get a better look at this Blake they were all so happy to see again.
He was tall, with short silvery curls and white eyebrows, and he leaned on a cane as he walked. Cousin Margot was right beside him, her hands slightly out as if to catch him if he stumbled. He seemed to notice this, turning his head to smile and say something to her. Margot laughed, and so did Blake, but still she stayed close to him, opening the door, standing back to follow him as he disappeared inside. Uncle Dickson stood at the foot of the narrow stairs, his face turned up to watch their progress. After a moment, they all crossed the lawn together toward the back porch. Allison drew back behind the curtains, not wanting them to think she was spying.
She wondered if it would be rude to go down and observe the reunion with Hattie and the twin maids. She was debating this, still haunting the window, when she saw a taxicab come around the corner and halt just short of the driveway of Benedict Hall.
The driver hopped out and opened the back door of his automobile. The passenger climbed out and started digging in his pocket. Allison gasped, and bounced out of the window seat. She flew across the bedroom, opened the door, and dashed down the main staircase. There were voices in the kitchen, the twins and Hattie welcoming Blake home. Allison hurried to the front door to reach it before the visitor rang the bell.
She pulled the door open. He stood on the porch, his hat in his hand and a huge grin spreading across his freckled face.
He said brightly, as if they had only parted the day before, “Hello, old thing!”
Allison cried, “Gosh! Tommy Fellowes!”