The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  “What has gotten into you? I am sorry, miss.” Nathan’s eyes fasten onto me, and that familiar confused gaze I provoke in others lands squarely on curious.

  I pull off a glove and feel for my leg, which, thank the Almighty, is still attached. However, my flaxen stockings have torn. Feeling Nathan’s gaze on my exposed limb, I yank my dress back down, and he glances away. Bear, on the other hand, is jumping around as if trying to climb the air, her tongue waving like a pink flag.

  Before I can gracefully flee, Nathan pants, “Beg your pardon, miss. She usually only gets this excited with people she knows.”

  I freeze. Bear knows me. She must have smelled me living below her, sure as I recognize the familiar scents of the Bell household on Nathan—lemon laundry soap and printer’s ink. Thank the Lord the beasts don’t talk, though it is clear they have opinions.

  The crossing guard points his flag at us. “Move along! Next one’s in two minutes.”

  The sheepdog begins circling, as if to herd us off the tracks, and her leash wraps around us, yanking Nathan toward me. Nathan’s mouth tucks into a grimace, showing teeth Robby would approve of, teeth I shouldn’t be admiring from so close. My skin tingles at the energy surrounding him—warm and vibrant as the tracks, which have started to hum. Before we collide, Nathan releases his end of the leash and grabs the dog by the collar. “Naughty. I should make you into a rug.”

  I pull free of the slackening rein.

  “Clear the track! She’s coming through!” The guard clangs a bell, and the last of the traffic scurries across. A plume of smoke drags through the sky.

  We hurry off the track, but where is my glove? Dropped between the ties, only ten paces away. What good is one glove? I will need to buy another pair, and I was saving up for a new hat to replace my misfit one. I could make it if I hurry.

  A hand stays me. “Is your skull cracked?” Nathan hisses.

  I shake my arm free of him.

  A train whistle shoots a hole in the air through which all other sound escapes, even the sound of Bear’s barking. I chug away as fast as my limbs can carry me.

  Five

  I return home a quarter of an hour later than usual, owing to a circuitous route I used in case Nathan tried to follow me. If you had tied a string to my ankle, I would’ve woven an impressive cat’s cradle through the neighborhood. It occurs to me that Bear is already on to me, and therefore, whichever route I took matters little. On the other hand, she has smelled me living in her basement for all these years and never spoke up before. Perhaps to the dog, I’m just another scent that makes up home, and we can all carry on as normal.

  I attempt to wash the day’s filth off my hands, but our soap slips from my grasp. When I pour the rinse water from the pitcher, some of the precious liquid sloshes over the bucket rim onto the concrete.

  Old Gin, who goes to the public baths on Tuesday nights, has already set pickled tomatoes and two drumsticks on my chipped plate, covered by a bowl.

  I settle onto my bed and remove my ripped stockings. The word gelogenic, which means “invoking laughter,” catches my eye, and under it, gigot, which means “leg of mutton.” My wall is mocking me. So is the listening tube, which beckons me to unplug it. I assure myself that everything is normal. Bear doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall.

  I pinch the wool plug from the tube.

  Bear woofs so loudly it seems she is mere inches from my head. I jump back with such force, I tumble off my mattress.

  “Bear, get down from that wall—” says Nathan. I stare at the tube in horror, as if the sheepdog might actually jump through the vent and slither out.

  Has the creature scented me? She never did that before in the five years she has lived here. I reach for the plug, but then the scrabble of claws fades. Nathan’s voice comes back into focus. “Who knew there were so many opinions on how to ask a man to a horse race?”

  Bear woofs from farther away.

  “My favorite was the chaperone with the chin hairs. ‘You must lodge yourself like a poppy seed in his teeth, and he’ll be dying to take you out,’” Nathan mimics an impressive Irish accent. In his regular voice, he adds, “What do you think, Bear?”

  This time, Bear does not woof.

  “You prefer the lady with the birdcage?” Nathan affects a voice that sounds as if its owner is missing teeth. “‘Horses stink. I’d rather pick aphids off my azaleas.’” He snorts. “I do like how azalea rolls off the tongue. Plus, it gives z a chance to get out of the box. Zs have had a hard time ever since Zach Taylor left office.”

  I stifle a laugh.

  “No, I’m going with the poppy seed. That’s the kind of thing Aunt Edna would say.”

  So Nathan was eavesdropping for an advice column. But lodging oneself like a poppy seed? Poppycock. The rules clearly state ladies should ask the men. Why complicate matters? Of course, that’s how courtship works. People never come right out and say what’s on their minds, preferring a complicated dance to simply walking across the room.

  But the Bells need something different from Aunt Edna, something radical, if the Focus is to reach two thousand subscribers by April. Why put a second horse in a race when you can put in a dragon, which not only flies but eats horses for breakfast? Atlanta considers itself the capital of the New South, the city that will lead the charge into the twentieth century. Women here, at least white women, are already marching for an amendment that would give them the vote, just like the Fifteenth did for colored men. Surely they are ready for a column that will take on the more serious concerns we face today. Someone needs to blow the trumpets of change. Someone who has viewed society both from the top branch and the bottom, from the inside of the tree and from the outside.

  Someone like . . . me. If I am such a saucebox, maybe I would make a good agony aunt. I like progress, and I have opinions, just like everyone else. And outside of the Bells, if anyone knows the Focus, it’s me. Not only would it help keep them in business, but I would be holding a peach to the bats of good fortune to keep us living here. No one would know my identity. The best way to deliver the truth, if not posthumously, is anonymously.

  Old Gin would not approve. He required the uncles to follow a long list of rules to minimize the risk of discovery—no loud talking, no leaving in groups, no dumping of waste into the Bells’ incinerator. But this is for us, too. And he need not find out. Old Gin hardly has time to read the news nowadays.

  My heart beats to quarters in my chest. I will be the Bells’ Aunt Edna.

  Six

  I alight to Old Gin’s side of the house, where a set of drawers holds old fabric and writing supplies. The drawer with the paper fights me, but finally budges. I quickly retrieve a sheet, then steal back to my corner.

  The ceiling shakes hardest on Wednesday and Saturday nights for the Focus’s biweekly publication on Thursdays and Sundays, but tonight, all is quiet. Instead of switching on my oil lamp, I light a candle, pressing the wax base into a cracked teacup. The light throws my shadow against the concrete walls. I study my darker twin, rolling a pen between her fingers. To whom should I address this letter?

  My first thought is Mrs. Bell, but I discard that idea. Her receipt of the mystery letter would come too soon after our encounter at the millinery, one bread crumb away from a trail. That leaves Nathan, who, despite our close encounter, never heard me speak English. It has to be him. Mr. Bell has more than once questioned Nathan’s ability to be publisher. Perhaps I can provide him the chance to show his father some of that forward-thinking spirit for which the Focus is known.

  Nathan will make a fine publisher one day, maybe not as charismatic as his father, but just as principled. And despite his grouchy disposition, unlike his father, he treads lightly upon the world, as if he knows there is more than one way to make a lasting mark.

  Mr. Nathan Bell

  Number One Luckie Street

 
Atlanta, Georgia

  Dear Mr. Bell,

  I have been a devotee of the Focus for many years. I have especially admired your thoughtful editorials, which demonstrate a commitment to justice as well as a fine-toothed wit (most recently, “Combined Sewer System Stinks: Flush at Your Own Risk” and “Fired Shoe Factory Workers Just Didn’t Fit In”).

  While the quality of your content exceeds that of the larger newspapers, there is one aspect in which the Focus is lacking: women. The Journal features a women’s page. The Constitution regularly covers home decoration. Even the Trumpeter runs the popular Advice from Aunt Edna. Magazines such as Ladies’ Home Journal are more popular now than ever.

  Women demand more content. The Focus can give it to them.

  To this end, I offer up my own pen and heart. I have lived in Atlanta all of my life, and consider myself an everyday woman. I do not want payment. The knowledge that I might have helped my sisters in Atlanta in some small way is payment enough. To aid you in your decision, I include a sample of my writing here.

  —

  LADIES ASKING GENTS TO HORSE RACE? YEA OR NEIGH?

  The propriety of “turnaround” events has reared its head again due to the upcoming horse race, even though the sponsors have clearly stated that “ladies may ask gentlemen.”

  I am of the opinion that there are many occasions in which the thing said differs greatly from the thing thought. For example, when one is asked, “Do you like my cucumber pie?” one might respond, “I do indeed,” even though one thinks it looks like alligator spit. If later, the pie eater compliments the fluffiness of said pie, the pie maker might reply, “It is really nothing,” though she be secretly pleased.

  However, the horse race is not one of these occasions. Public invitations do not care what you think of them. They speak plainly. Why should a lady who chooses to ask a gent to the race be “ruining her reputation,” rather than simply obliging her hosts’ wishes? When deception is not at issue, words should be taken at their face value, or they are in danger of losing currency. So, ladies, quit your stalling. Your steed may not be available furlong.

  * * *

  —

  If my offer interests you, you may simply print the article, and I will know to deliver a new one. I am a private person and do not wish to make known my identity for personal reasons.

  Yours sincerely,

  I shake out my hand, wondering what to name myself. It should be something unique and memorable, a name no one else has. Our horse comes to mind. I had named her Sweet Potato because of her gentle and solid nature. Something with the word sweet would be perfect, to temper the more provocative nature of the articles I would pen. Miss Sweetie, I write with a flourish. Then I cautiously uncork the listening tube. A chair scrapes the floor. Nathan’s shoes tap evenly across to the wall and back again, followed by the scrabble of Bear’s paws. She woofs, but not toward the vent, to my immense relief.

  The knowledge that the person to whom I am writing is also writing just one floor above makes my shadow sit up straighter, and if shadows had smiles, I might see one reflected there.

  I seal the paper with the candle wax. My legs bounce, itching to deliver it, but I must wait until tonight.

  Too fired up to eat, I rummage through the crates Old Gin keeps in his room, hoping to find another pair of gloves. Most of the uncles took their scant belongings with them when they left, but oddments remain, like Lucky Yip’s favorite cushion and Hammer Foot’s two-string fiddle, which for obvious reasons he rarely used.

  Not finding gloves, I restack the crates, and my eyes catch on a rolled-up rug standing in the corner. It’s been there so long, it almost looks like part of the wall. We could use a rug like that under the spool table to cushion Old Gin’s creaky ankles.

  The rug fights me when I drag it from its corner, spitting dust and making me sneeze. I unroll it, and to my surprise, a set of clothes drops out: a navy suit with fine French seams, a four-ply linen collared shirt, a coat of undyed wool, and one barely scratched pair of black-and-white Balmoral boots. No wonder the rug was so heavy.

  Whoever wore the clothes was taller than either Hammer Foot or Lucky Yip and slim in build. He certainly dressed finer than the typical laborer. Maybe he was a gambler. If so, Old Gin would never have allowed him to live with us. But he must have been someone important to Old Gin; otherwise, why not sell the clothes?

  I am fitting the rug under our spool table when I hear Old Gin’s narrow step approaching. Freshly scrubbed and smelling of cedar, he hangs his coat and cap on a wall hook. He frowns at the mostly blue-speckled rug, then tests the springiness with his toe. “Fits well here, but I see you have been too busy redecorating to eat.”

  “I wasn’t hungry until now.” My lowered voice sounds chirpier than normal, and I busy myself working the meat off the drumstick. “Please, I can’t finish both.” I gesture to the second drumstick with my knife.

  “If you only eat one, you will walk lopsided.”

  I wait for his face to break, but it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s joking.

  “I found clothes, too, and a pair of Balmorals. Who did they belong to?”

  He doesn’t turn around from where he’s pouring himself tea at the stove. “One of the uncles. You wouldn’t remember him.”

  “Well, they are fine clothes. The Balmorals alone will fetch ten dollars.”

  He dries his hands on the towel by the stove, then settles himself on his milking stool. “I will take care of it.” Reaching toward me, he pulls something from my ear: a bluebell, one of the deep violet beauties that grow along the Paynes’ hedges. A grin spreads across his face. “Mrs. Payne will see you tomorrow about a position.”

  I take the bluebell and twirl it between my fingers. “What position?”

  He pauses, as if readying the words before sending them out. “Weekday maid. For Caroline.”

  “Caroline?” The name of the Paynes’ only daughter douses me with cold water.

  “She returned from finishing school last month.”

  I grimace. “You knew.”

  “I suspected.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to be a lady’s maid.”

  At my dismissive tone, Old Gin’s uneven ears twitch. He interlaces his fingers and shakes his hands at the wrist, a “good fortune” gesture to keep away the monkeys of mischief.

  I sigh. The wildflower doesn’t complain when the horse waters it. It is just thankful for the moisture. I should be grateful for Old Gin’s devotion, and willing to do my share. After a day of beating the rug for any paying crumbs that might shake loose, a real job drops in my lap, and I react as if it were a hairy spider. “Forgive me, Father.”

  He stretches his ankles, and they make cracking sounds. “Caroline is older now. You are older, too, hm?” Despite his mild tone, he sees right through me.

  My pickled tomato is so sour, I chase it with water. A long-buried memory of being locked in a rusted bin during hide-and-seek on the Payne Estate bubbles to the surface. When Old Gin finally found me, I had wet myself, and my voice was raw from yelling. Though Caroline was only seven and I was five, and plenty of vile nippers grow into well-mannered adults, I doubt she is one of them. A cockroach will always be a nasty, horrible insect.

  I feel Old Gin’s eyes on me and try to unbend my frown. “If I get the job, perhaps I’ll be able to watch the horse race.”

  Old Gin’s face is as honest as the sun, but for a fleeting second, a cloud passes over it and then burns away. He is hiding something from me, just as I am hiding something from him. The last time I sensed it was when he told me that Lucky Yip had left for a “better home.” I only later learned that Lucky Yip had taken a one-way trip back to China. In an urn.

  Standing, Old Gin runs his hands over his belly. He hasn’t touched the drumstick. “No chess tonight. Turn in early.”

&n
bsp; “Okay,” I say, though it isn’t clear whether he is telling me to turn in early or that he needs the rest. “I’ll clean up.”

  I watch with concern as Old Gin retreats to his quarters, until dark memories of Caroline muscle out any other thoughts in my head. With bucket and brush, I work out my agitation on the dishes, washing them until they squeak. Then I complete my own toilet in the privacy of my corner. The leftover barley water not only disinfects the skin, but keeps my hair shiny. Finally, I tuck my letter to Nathan in my waistband and carry the wastewater plus my small chamber pot to the eastern corridor.

  Like the tree exit, the eastern “barn” exit originates by our stove, but it terminates in the stall of a half-burned barn with a squashed roof. The barn must have provided a handy terminus for the enslaved on their road to freedom, offering not only a lookout but a water source from a well dug deep underground. I can still smell the charred wood from Sherman’s infamous march to the sea twenty-five years ago. The barn had been burned beyond repair, yet it persisted.

  I will persist, too. Working as Caroline’s maid makes good economic sense, as Mrs. English would say. I should be so lucky to get a job right after losing one, especially one with the most influential family in Atlanta.

  Maybe finishing school will have snipped off a few of Caroline’s more disagreeable threads and stitched a sound hem on her rough edges. I must put my best foot forward.

  A cloudless sky has shed its day colors for a robe of dark violet. The scent of sewage, ever present in Atlanta, feels less combative than usual to my nose. Whenever it rains, storm water causes the sewers to overflow into the streets, but thankfully, the weather is finally starting to dry. I make sure no one is looking, and then quickly pour the wastes into the drain by the side of the road.