“I was seventeen years old and needed work desperately. My dear aunt, whom I had been living with, had died of a heart condition, and I was faced with going back home to Louisville and living with my guardian parents, which I had vowed to never do, especially since my sister had already married and escaped their grasp. She had been my only friend and ally in that household. No, I would never return to that abusive place if it meant starving. I found Zelma’s ad for help in the classifieds and responded immediately.
“Zelma was in a dark place when I met her that first time, when I went for the interview. She had lost nearly everyone she had ever loved. Her husband, George had died a few years earlier, her son had died sometime after that of a heart ailment, and now her housekeeper of many years, Ester Green, had passed away. Zelma was left alone and devastated.
“My heart bled for her as she told me her troubles. By the end of the interview, we were hugging each other and crying together. I was hired on the spot. With me having no place to stay, Zelma gave me a furnished bedroom to call my own, quite an impressively furnished bedroom, I might ad, not like one would expect a maid to live in. I was so excited that I had found such a wonderful friend and such a magnificent place to live. The only drawback was that I had perhaps exaggerated my domestic abilities. I was young and inexperienced, but I bought some books and magazines on housekeeping, cooking, and etiquette, and I learned very quickly. Zelma was kind enough to endure my inadequacies while I figured everything out. Within a year’s time, through determination and effort, I had become a very efficient housekeeper. I so wanted to please her.”
Ethan relaxed a little, imagining Miss Satterfield as a young and inexperienced person made him think of her as a little more human. However, he still didn’t feel relaxed enough to interrupt with a lot of questions. He sat quietly and listened with true interest.
“Things went on like that for a few years, and I wanted nothing more in life. I had a great job, this magnificent place to live, and the best friend of my life. It’s all I had ever wanted, having grown up in such an abusive household after my parents had passed away.
“I hitchhiked to Rocky Creek when I was thirteen years old, riding on a wagon loaded with tobacco part of the way. My guardian aunt in Louisville had locked me up in the closet one last time. I had broken one of her favorite china plates, and she nearly slapped me senseless. It was a relief to me when she slammed and locked that closet door between us. Over the years that tiny room had become my refuge from her wrath. But this time was different. This time she left me there alone while the rest of the family went for a weekend visit with family members in Lexington. I was terrified locked inside that dark prison with no one else around. By the next morning, I had kicked the door open, nearly spraining an ankle in the process.
“Determined to never return to that retched place again, I fled and hitchhiked all the way to Rocky Creek, showing up at my aunt Mable’s doorstep. She had always been so kind and loving to me. I remember fondly what a thrill it always was on the occasions when she would visit us in Louisville. She was a beautiful red rose in a weedy, neglected garden. I’m sure my life would have turned out so much differently and better if it had been she who had adopted me rather than her awful sister. So many times I had begged for her to take me home with her. She tried her best to attain guardianship over me but always without success. I mean, why would my wretched family in Louisville want to give up such cheap labor? I wrote a letter to them, but they never answered back, much to my relief. You can’t imagine how desperate and afraid I became when Aunt Mable passed away. I owe Zelma my eternal gratitude for taking me in when she did.
“Like I was saying, during the first few years of my employment here I was fully content, happier than I had ever been. Then one day a delivery boy brought a bouquet of flowers to the door. They were addressed to Zelma from a man named Granville. I wasn’t aware of Zelma seeing anyone, so you can imagine my curiosity of the matter. Very excited, I found Zelma in the backyard garden and presented the flowers to her. She merely sneered when she read the card and told me to decorate my bedroom with them, if I pleased. Confused, I returned to the house and placed the flowers on my dresser. Over the next few weeks a succession of flowers arrived with the same response from Zelma. My room became quite filled with them to the point of becoming tacky.
“The phone rang unexpectedly one day; it was Granville asking for Zelma. He had quite a handsome masculine voice, I might add. Zelma refused his call just as she had refused the flowers. I was quite embarrassed to pass the news to him. Not giving up, he started calling every day and each time found rejection. I couldn’t understand how Zelma could be so cold to a man so kind and romantic. I had never seen him in person, so I speculated that he must be unattractive in appearance, something that mattered not a wit to me.
Over time, as Zelma continued to refuse his calls, Granville began asking me questions about myself, like how was my day going, advancing over time to questions about my favorite pastimes, of which there were few. These personal questions embarrassed me at first, but gradually I began to look forward to his calls. On occasions when Zelma wasn’t around, these calls grew into long and meaningful conversations. I felt very guilty about this, like I was sneaking and talking to the Devil, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the first time that a man had ever paid me so much attention.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Ethan, “but I didn’t realize they had phones back in those days.”
“Oh, Zelma had one of the first phones in town. It was what they call a candlestick phone. It had a separate earpiece that you held up to your ear while talking into the mouthpiece. It sat on a little table next to a chair in the hallway. She had spent a great deal of money to have it installed and a line extended to the house from town. It was a precautionary measure during her son’s long illness, in case he needed a doctor immediately.
“Anyway, back to what I was saying, one day something strange and unexpected happened: a gift of a dozen roses arrived at the door. I accepted the gifts, like always, from the deliveryman, and as usual Zelma turned her nose up when I presented them to her. Like I always did with Granville’s gifts, I took them to my bedroom and sat them on the marble-topped dresser. Glancing at the card that accompanied the roses, my heart nearly skipped a beat. The card was addressed to me, not Zelma. I broke out into a sweat and nearly panicked. I wondered what her reaction would be if she should find out. I ripped the card off the flowers and tore it into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Initially I was shocked and horrified by this turn of events. But then something began to happen: I began to dream. Granville was a very rich man, as I had heard Zelma mention once. If we were to fall in love and marry, I would become a wealthy woman, something I had never once in my life expected to happen to me. It was a selfish thought, I know.
“As the days went by, though I had still never met Granville in person, the dream began to become very real and consumed me. I started to think beyond the walls of this house and living life as its humble servant. As the days passed, I became almost criminally secretive. When the gifts poured in, I continued to let Zelma believe they were intended for her, always destroying the cards with my name on them. My heart would flutter at the very sound of Granville’s voice.
“He began to take part in the deception, as I indicated to him the best times to call. If Zelma were within hearing distance, I would loudly announce to him that she absolutely would take no calls from him, though he no longer asked to speak to her, anyway. Granville quickly learned that this was code indicating I couldn’t talk. When Zelma was gone, however, we would have wonderful conversations. Soon we arranged to have our first meeting. I felt so wonderfully happy, yet so guilty at the same time.
“Our date was planned to be in a few weeks on a Sunday afternoon, my only day off, and I was to make an excuse to Zelma that I wanted to take a walk. I secretly ordered a pretty blue dress and a new hat while running an errand in town, nothing too extravagant, so as to
raise suspicion. I was a dreamy nervous wreck as I anticipated my first meeting with Granville. Mentally I prepared myself to meet a man not so handsome, knowing I would still love him if he turned out to be the Phantom of the Opera.
“But before our date something terrible happened. I had gone to town to pick up my dress, which had been fitted, and a few much-needed grocery items. When I returned home, I found Zelma to be in a very strange mood. She was sitting at this very kitchen table drinking coffee. While putting away the groceries, having already stashed the dress and hat in my room, I tried to carry on a conversation, but she was very short with me. I asked her if something was the matter.
“‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. I nervously continued putting the groceries away, pouring the flour into the flour bin, my hands shaking with apprehension. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Your latest gift has arrived. I laid it in your room on the table. Looks like quite an expensive cameo and what a nice little romantic note that accompanied it. I threw the note in your trash can with all the other ripped up cards.’
“I thought I would lose consciousness. I loved Zelma so much; it pained me terribly that she had discovered my deception. I began crying and tried to explain the situation to her. I told her that I would pack my things and leave immediately, but she refused me, saying there was no need for me to leave. I was very grateful to her for being so kind. But things were very different after that.
“The next day I thought I’d die on the spot when the telephone rang. I knew who it was. It wasn’t like there were very many people who had a phone in those days. I slowly walked to answer it, but Zelma swept past me and answered it herself. Guiltily, I listened to the conversation from within the kitchen.
“I was absolutely stunned to hear Zelma talking very kindly to Granville, saying nothing of the gifts he had been sending me. She acted as though she were talking to an old friend. I didn’t understand it. What was she up to? After she had hung up the phone, she walked quickly into the kitchen and caught me standing there. ‘From now on,’ she announced, ‘I will answer the phone in this household. If I’m not around, you are to let it ring.’ I was shocked by her words. She could have thrown ice water in my face, and it wouldn’t have stunned me more. I didn’t know what to do. I felt my life was ruined.
“As the days passed, I slowly became angry over the situation. If Zelma didn’t want him, why should she care if he courted me? Was she such a jealous and selfish person? Every day around the same time the telephone would ring, and Zelma would have longer and longer conversations with Granville. The pain I felt over this was like knives stabbing my heart. My only hope being that he was only appeasing her, perhaps sensing that something wasn’t right, that she had found out about his gifts. I didn’t give up hope, not yet.
“I can’t tell you how nervous and excited at the same time I was on the morning of my planned meeting with Granville. I fretted all morning over my new dress and hat. Zelma had gone to Sunday services, but I had stayed behind with the excuse of not feeling well. The phone rang just as I was adjusting my hat for the one-hundredth time.
“Knowing that Zelma had forbade me to answer the phone but unable to do otherwise, I timidly answered. It was Granville. Extremely happy to hear from him, I attempted to talk to him in the manner of which we had last spoke, hoping for the same from him. But my world immediately turned cold when he spoke, telling me that he was in love with Zelma and that we would never be able to see each other or talk to each other in a romantic way again. I dropped the phone and ran to my room. The songbirds outside my window, having serenaded that morning, now mocked me with their maddening chirps. I closed the pane to stifle their noise and threw myself down on my bed. I had nothing to live for.
“I found Zelma in the kitchen that evening, having somehow found the strength to leave my room. Our eyes met, but we didn’t say a word. She knew what had happened, without a doubt. I warmed up some leftovers, as was customary on Sundays, and we ate a silent supper.
“There was a change in our relationship from that point forward. Oh, Zelma tried to be kind and cheerful, but I was a new person, a cold person. She would have done just as well hiring a robot to do her dirty work. I continued to do my job, perhaps better than before, not hampered by friendship and nonsensical conversations. I was no longer the naïve girl who had so nervously and humbly showed up at the doorstep. She even doubled my salary when she found out I was seeking employment elsewhere. I hated this place and everything about it, but the money enticed me to stay. What a beautifully decorated prison this house had become.”
She sipped the last of her coffee and suggested that they move to the parlor. Ethan finished the last of his coffee and followed her into the other room, seating himself on an antique sofa with his right foot positioned under his left thigh.
“Why don’t you just go spit on Zelma’s grave after you get through placing your dirty shoe on her furniture,” said Clara. Ethan immediately moved his foot back to the floor. “I mean, how disrespectful. It reminds me that I’m speaking to a child. Imagine me telling all these dark secrets to the likes of…” She stopped suddenly, as though another thought occurred to her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Satterfield. I don’t live in such a fancy place as this, so I’m not used to having to keep my feet off the furniture. I forgot; I’m sorry.”
“No,” she continued, slowly as though formulating a new thought. “It’s really me who should be sorry. You’re an invited guest, no longer paid to be here. I shouldn’t have been so rude. Zelma wouldn’t have cared if you’d danced on her furniture. She loved children, you know. I’ve always been annoyed by them, not just them, but annoyed by almost everyone and everything. I’ve wasted so much of my life consumed by bitterness, bitterness about what my life should have been but wasn’t. I wish I had time to change it all now, to make things better, to be someone who loved and laughed at things. Now here I sit lonely and old, ever how deservedly.”
“You’re not all that old,” said Ethan, feeling genuine sympathy for her. “I’m sure you’ve still got time to change, not that I think you need to.”
“You’ve always been so polite and nice to me,” she said, “and all I’ve ever shown you is contempt. I see that now.” She clasped her slightly trembling hands together as though to steady them. “I’ve treated you the way I’ve treated everyone else for most of my life. I guess in the back of my mind I always knew that Zelma loved me, even during the rough times. Now there’s a void within me with no one’s love left to fill it. I ran everyone away except Zelma, who thankfully refused to go. Don’t ever let yourself become like me. Never lose your smile or your love for the people and things around you.”
“I don’t care to stop by and visit every so often,” said Ethan, “if you need someone to talk to. Maybe my mom could fix dinner sometime, and you can come over and eat with us. We don’t live in a fancy house like this one, but my mom’s a good cook. She has some fancy china she got for her and dad’s wedding she never uses. We can get that out and use a nice table cloth.”
Tears formed in Clara’s eyes. She quickly wiped the tears away with a handkerchief and said, “You really are a goodhearted boy and have deserved so much better from me. I appreciate your offer, but I’m sure you or your mother, either one, wouldn’t be comfortable having an old crone like me as a dinner guest.”
“No, It’s okay,” said Ethan. “We’d be glad to have you. My mom’s really nice too. You’d like her, I’m sure.”
“It’s enough that you invited me. I appreciate it deeply. It’s the first invitation I’ve had to anything outside this house for many years.”
“Thanks for spending so much time talking to me,” said Ethan. “I know I’m just a kid, and all, but I love hearing about Miss Green’s life and your life too. Maybe I’ll tell my kids about it someday.”
“Thank you from the bottom of this cold heart,” said Clara. “I see now what Zelma saw in you. I’ll be glad to tell you everything. But be ready, because it’s a gruesome
and shocking story. I hope it won’t give you nightmares. But I need a break for now. Talking so much about such hurtful things has exhausted me. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, but if you’ll come back tomorrow night around six o’clock, I’ll finish the story in all its horror. For now, though, I’m tired and hungry and can’t speak another word more of it.
“Oh, and don’t forget your envelope. Zelma wanted you to have it.”
Ethan took the envelope and thanked her, sorely disappointed that he had to wait for the rest of the story. He promised to return the next day. As he rode away, he decided it would be a good time to visit the cemetery and was glad to find Mr. Green sitting in front of Square Deal.
“I was hoping you’d ask to go today,” said Simon. “I’ve been looking for something to do.”
As Simon’s old red and white International Harvester truck rolled passed the gates of the Promised Land Cemetery, Ethan looked out the windows with curiosity. It was a fancy cemetery filled with gravestones of many shapes and sizes, from simple blocks to magnificent and haunting statues. Limbs of ancient picturesque trees hovered above the manicured grounds, representing the hope of eternal life in a garden of death.
“Miss Green is buried over here in the rich people’s part of the cemetery,” said Simon. “Some of the stones cost more money than my house and land is worth, I’m sure, if you account for inflation.” He rounded a curve, pulled the truck over a little to the side of the road, and cut the engine, which rattled and sputtered a bit before finally dying.
“Wow, these stones are nice,” said Ethan, stepping out of the truck and shutting the squeaky door carefully.
“Over here’s where Zelma’s family is buried. They stopped burying over at the Flintridge cemetery around 1900, probably was about to fill up.”
“What’s that fancy little stone building there in the middle?” asked Ethan, walking up to the structure and examining it closely. It was a tall rectangular structure with green Bronze doors on the narrow side that faced the roadway. There was a lion head on each door, below a clover-shaped window.
A Million Doorways Page 20