The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  Sweet Potato whinnies to Old Gin, and the men, standing a hundred feet away, look up at us. Billy stops carving, and his foxlike face sharpens, becoming almost gleeful. His eyes take their time tramping around on my face. “Well, who do we have here?” His words float toward me.

  Something in Old Gin’s wary expression warns me away, and I make tracks toward the stables.

  Acting disinterested, I tie the horses to a hitching post for Old Gin to untack later.

  Then I duck into the work shed and double back to the rear, where Caroline’s safety keeps company with a pile of crates containing an assortment of objects, from cracked dishes to hats. Must be the Paynes’ castoffs. Peering through a crack in the wood slats, I can make out Old Gin and Billy still talking. Billy points his knife at Old Gin, and my breath comes out as a hiss. Old Gin does not react.

  With a flick of his wrist, the man folds the knife and tucks it up his sleeve. Then he swings a leg over his sorrel and urges her away.

  What would the fixer want with Old Gin? My stand-in father clearly wanted to distance himself from me, though I doubt his ruse succeeded. Anyone familiar with Atlanta would know that two Chinese people in the same place at the same time is more than a coincidence. I shake out the stiffness in my limbs and try to make my breathing effortless again, the way Hammer Foot instructed to get energy flowing.

  No doubt there is an explanation. I will simply ask Old Gin later.

  That decided, I edge around Caroline’s bicycle, and my eyes catch on a hat in the crate of castoffs, a top-shelf camel bonnet with box pleats and a thick tie of rose silk. With its good bones, it must have cost at least eight dollars new, though Mrs. English would’ve charged eight fifty. Perhaps Mrs. Payne will sell it to me for a discount.

  At quitting time, I bring the camel bonnet to Mrs. Payne’s study, where she often writes in her Lady’s Planner. This room used to be my favorite because of the fairy-tale books she kept on the shelf. Then Caroline locked a litter of kittens inside, who tore through the place like termites in a bag of sawdust, and blamed me for the prank. The books were ruined. When Mrs. Payne believed me over her daughter, Caroline hissed in my ear, “I despise you.”

  Mrs. Payne looks up from her journal and blinks at the hat in my hands.

  “I would like to buy this, ma’am.”

  A minnow of curiosity darts across her face. “Go ahead, try it on.”

  I remove my lace cap and fit the bonnet over my head.

  She rounds her desk and ties the rose ribbon to one side of my chin, as is the fashion, and then sweeps my simple hair braid to the front. “Please accept it as a gift.”

  “Wh-what? Oh no, I couldn’t. I was thinking you could set it aside for me until I could pay for it—”

  “I just lent Noemi Caroline’s bicycle. Take the hat. It’s fuzzy anyway.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You are most generous.”

  Her gaze falls off me and lands on the rug. A strange moment passes, then she gracefully folds her hands as if warming them around a teacup. Her smile teeters. “We shall see you tomorrow, then.”

  * * *

  —

  I WAIT UNTIL Old Gin and I have stepped off the Payne Estate before blurting out, “Why were you talking to Billy Riggs?”

  His forehead pinches. “Turtle egg,” he growls, a Chinese insult. “He claims one of the Chinese owed his father money.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who left before you were born.” The gray in his brown eyes suddenly looks like iron streaks in ore. “If you see this turtle egg again, stay away from him. We do not need his reek in our nose, hm?”

  The streetcar arrives, and we drag our tired bodies aboard, along with other workers. In the streets, a different citizenry moves about. These ride carriages with polished seats, and their eyes roam freely about the scenery.

  Old Gin slides in next to me. “On the way home from the baths, I saw twin Shetlands.”

  He means the Shetlands belonging to the Bells’ landlord, who only visits when the rent is late. “That’s the third time this year.”

  He nods. “If Bells evicted, landlord will build a factory.”

  A factory is more lucrative than a single home. We will have to leave when the place is torn down. The memory of Carcass Alley tightens my belly. Where would we go? Southerners do not like the Chinese living among them, as Lucky Yip could have attested. Shiny pink scars covered half of his body from the fire that ruffians set to his shanty in Mississippi, where he was building railroads. The Chinese who drifted this way lived in shadows, and shadows were not easy to come by.

  Old Gin notices me grimacing and tsks his tongue. “Do not worry. I have taken steps to ensure our future, even if that future is not in Atlanta.”

  His words throw a switch, halting my other thoughts. For all its faults, Atlanta would be a hard city to leave, with its generous sunshine, rolling hills, and ladylike breezes. Seventeen years of living here has mapped its streets and alleyways into my veins. “What steps?”

  “Many Chinese in Augusta. Maybe a husband.”

  Augusta, Georgia, lies over a hundred fifty miles east, its bachelors mostly men who’d come to dig the canal. Something sour rises in my throat. “I have no desire to be someone’s wife.”

  Consternation pulls the wrinkles on Old Gin’s face. “Motherhood is a most noble calling. My own mother was only sixteen when she married, but she raised two good sons.”

  It is hard to argue with that. Unlike the other uncles, Old Gin was not one of the laborers brought to Mississippi during Reconstruction, but hails from a line of scholar-officials in the Qing dynasty. His mother was a gentlewoman who attended her sons with great devotion, and was esteemed among his father’s wives.

  “What would you do if you did not raise a family? Hats?”

  My shoulders droop. Hats had given me a way to put my fingerprint on the world, but Mrs. English had seen to it that I wouldn’t get another apprenticeship here. “Maybe I haven’t discovered it yet. But do you remember when you told Hammer Foot that a cricket is happiest when it sings?”

  He nods. “Hammer Foot hated digging ditches. He liked performance.” Hammer Foot could walk a tightrope blindfolded. I’d seen it with my own eyes. He’d headed north, where he hoped to join P. T. Barnum’s Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Hippodrome. “Of course, not always easy to find work you love.”

  “I know. But you did.”

  “I told you I have been lucky, hm? Still, a good partner can support you while you discover this purpose. We will find you one with a big nose.”

  * * *

  —

  WITH ONE EAR stuck to the wall, I listen hard for clues that Miss Sweetie might be making her debut soon. The rumblings from the printing press obscure the conversation, but Nathan eventually takes a break.

  “Striking,” he says. “Looks . . . oriental?”

  “Yes,” comes his mother’s voice. “A Chinese girl made it.”

  Her hat’s embellishment. My neck aches from the effort of keeping still.

  “You don’t say. I ran into a Chinese girl the other day. At least, Bear did.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Startled.”

  “As did mine. What else?”

  “I don’t know, Mother,” he says with impatience. “She had two eyes, two legs . . .”

  I grit my teeth, remembering the exposure of the legs.

  “Oh good, for a minute I thought she might have had three. If we were ever held up, how would you describe the perpetrator to the police? The young woman I saw was pretty, about your age, five foot and some change, with soft brown eyes the color of chestnuts. She had creamy skin—I suppose all hatters are good about keeping out of the sun—and she had a careful way of moving around. She didn’t throw herself about like some young people. Stop twitching. So, what do you
think?”

  “I think, if she ever holds us up, you’d better do the describing.”

  “We don’t see many Chinese around here, especially after the Rabid-Eyes Rapist. Of course, you were too young to remember that.”

  “I read Father’s articles.”

  I allow myself a breath. They never did catch the Rabid-Eyes Rapist, but they caught another man who looked like him—if you ignored the ten-inch difference in height. The unfortunate soul was eventually cleared, but only after they had hanged him from a stout oak. The Chinese who remained in Atlanta began drifting away after that.

  “I suppose that could be who I saw,” says Nathan at last.

  “I didn’t catch her name. Perhaps I will ask Mrs. English tomorrow. I’m curious about her.”

  I stifle a gasp. Hammer Foot says when people make connections, their energies seek one another out with more frequency as the mind strives to see patterns. That’s why Old Gin was so strict with the uncles about following rules. Footprints are not just left on the ground.

  Have I stamped another footprint with my Miss Sweetie column? Yes. Perhaps sending the Bells my letter was a very bad idea.

  Ten

  My muscles protest as I shift around the bench of the streetcar, scanning passengers for copies of the Focus, ears attuned to any mention of the word sweetie. Though 90 percent of me dreads the Bells’ accepting my proposal, the 10 percent of me that wishes for it is a vocal (and regrettably vainglorious) minority. A man in front of me is reading the Savannah Tribune, one of the few colored newspapers available in this town. Beside me, a butler unfolds the Constitution, clutching it closer to him when I try to get a look. At least the Paynes will have a copy. They subscribe to every newspaper, save the colored and the Jewish ones.

  The air is shrouded in droplets, making it feel as if the morning is spitting in my face. Every jostle of the streetcar seems designed to wreak maximum injury on my limbs. Old Gin, though, takes the bumps in stride, serenely chewing on a piece of ginger. Shivering, I slide closer to him, being careful not to muss my new “cheeky clouds” hairstyle with its rolled bundles that peek out from my “borrowed” bonnet.

  “I must spend tonight at the Paynes’,” says Old Gin, sidestepping my surprised eyes. He’s been working late hours recently, but he’s never spent the night. “Merritt will be arriving with a new Arabian stallion. Mr. Crycks wants me on hand, just in case.”

  Merritt has always loved fast horses, just like his sister. An Arabian stallion is sure to cause a stir among the mares who are in heat. “Where will you sleep?”

  “There’s an extra room besides Mr. Crycks’s in the work shed.”

  “The work shed is always drafty.”

  “If I’m cold, I’ll sleep in the stables.”

  “The dust will hardly help your cough.”

  “I’m only a little hoarse, hm?” He begins to laugh at his own joke, but when he becomes short of breath, I fix him with a glare.

  “Will they compensate you for your additional work? You should not set a precedent.” Of course, that would never happen. Folks like us are just lucky to have jobs.

  “There are rewards.”

  May the rewards from his extra hours be worthy of the loss of his health.

  Once at the Paynes’, Old Gin opens the kitchen door for me, but leaves before anyone can attempt to feed him. Through the window, I spy Noemi bent over in the garden.

  I assemble fist-size cinnamon buns dripping with honey and butter on a doily-thin plate, betting that even my bad-tempered mistress won’t refuse this breakfast.

  Before I even reach the third floor, I can hear Caroline’s and her mother’s voices, the rapid pace telling me how things lie. They must like to get their arguing over with in the morning, sort of like milking the cows. It strikes me that money can alleviate many of the miseries of common folk, but it opens up other avenues of suffering.

  I park the tray on a side table and wait outside Caroline’s bedchambers for the flames to cool. On the wall hangs a painting of a horse standing atop a knoll, his tail high, ears rigid. A herd of black sheep graze in the valley below it, kept in line by a fierce-looking dog. The painting probably gave the artist a mean hand cramp with all the tiny strokes, but something about the scene puts an itch under my skin.

  I hear Old Gin’s voice in my head. Fancy horse like that wouldn’t just be strolling around, free as a bird, hm? Noemi might wonder why the sheep are all black and stuck at the bottom of the hill, a question that four years of bloody battles between the states and twenty-five years of Reconstruction still haven’t answered. For me, the piece is simply banal—one of Nathan’s favorite words. For once, couldn’t the artist show the things people don’t pay attention to? Like the wind. Maybe the wind wouldn’t be so invisible if people took the time to notice it.

  When I detect a lull in the conversation, I shoulder into the room. “Good morning, ma’am. Miss.”

  Mrs. Payne pulls the African violet away from Caroline, lying in bed, and a trail of soil spills onto the woman’s apricot skirts. She dusts them off with a few flicks of her fingers. “Good morning, Jo.”

  Unlike her mother, Caroline holds her displeasure up for all to see: two hot spots on her cheeks, a scowling mouth, and eyes narrowed to slits. I might have been wrong about the cinnamon buns, which seem to have been frightened into silence and no longer smell. I set the tray on her table and pour the coffee.

  Mrs. Payne paints on a bright smile. “Jo, we were just discussing whether common horses can compete alongside pedigreed horses. As Old Gin’s daughter, perhaps you are knowledgeable about things like pedigrees.”

  My gut tells me to demure, but then Caroline pipes up. “She’s certainly knowledgeable about being common.”

  I pass Caroline her mug of coffee, fixing her with a look to remind her of our agreement. I can see the loathing in her eyes, and I can’t help wondering if, instead of moving us to a more temperate clime, I’ve summoned winter forever. She lowers her eyes and takes the coffee.

  “With the proper training and advantages, I think any horse can be great. Family name is a burden unique to humans.” I pick a cushion off the floor and bring it to the open window to shake out.

  Caroline slurps her drink. “You see, Mama, the maid agrees with me. Now you must let Thief race.”

  Mr. Q’s horse, Thief? A racehorse? I give the pillow I am holding an extra slap. It gives me a stitch in the flank to know I have unwittingly taken Caroline’s side.

  Her gloating eyes crest the rim of her mug, and I wish I could take back my words. The tricky thing about giving opinions is that sometimes they cost you more than you wanted to spend.

  Mrs. Payne sighs. “The sponsors are paying good money to put their name on a horse. They won’t be happy to receive Thief.”

  Caroline slides languidly off her bed and settles herself at her table. “Maybe the Atlanta Suffragists will win a bid and you can give Thief to them.” She holds up a fist and chirps, “Equal votes for all.”

  Mrs. Payne lets out a ladylike huff. “Heaven forbid they could scrape together enough to qualify.” She stiffly crosses to the door. “Your friends will be here soon. Jo, that is a fetching hairstyle. Perhaps you can do the same for Caroline.”

  Caroline tears a chunk off a bun with her teeth, sugaring her lips. Something tells me the taste is not very sweet.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE DRAWING room where the Paynes receive their visitors, golden curtains pool onto milky carpets. A gilded piano plays catch and throw with the late-morning light streaming in from the windows. This is not the room to be caught smacking your lips or scratching your nits. The simple arrangement of furniture puts every guest on display, the sofas extra plush to encourage lingering while they slowly digest you.

  Noemi pours glasses of lemonade for the two ladies seated at a circular table. She moves awa
y, and I recognize two crushed-velvet capotes, hats made by my own hands.

  My eyes pop out when I recognize Miss Saltworth and Miss Culpepper, bright as petunias in pink and violet frocks. The sweet scent of Salt’s Eau de Lilac perfume mingles with that of the lemon furniture oil and cigar smoke.

  Well, if the sun hasn’t risen in the west. Old money likes to think it weighs more than new money, and Caroline, at least the Caroline I knew, only associated with girls whose families have carried around their wealth for generations. But perhaps she has dropped her old acquaintances after her years away at school, and is in need of new ones. Funny enough, I don’t remember her having many friends.

  Salt’s round face splits open. “Why, it’s Jo! Whatever are you doing here?”

  Pepper’s dark eyes sweep down my uniform. Unlike the curvy Salt, Pepper’s as slim as a fiddle string with a deeper bass of a voice. “Oh! She’s a maid.”

  My reversal of fortune lands like a dead pigeon on the carpet. “It’s nice to see you, Miss Saltworth, Miss Culpepper.”

  “You’re Caroline’s new maid?” Salt was always half a step behind Pepper.

  “I’m afraid so,” Caroline drawls before I can answer.

  Noemi winks at me.

  “Caroline!” Pepper folds herself back into a chair. “If I’d known Jo was up for grabs, I would’ve taken her in a heartbeat.” Hope rises in my chest until she adds, “That is, if I didn’t already have my Martha.”

  Salt pulls a blond ringlet with a doughy finger, and then lets it snap back into place. “And if I didn’t already have my Lucy, I would’ve taken her, too. Think of all the hats. Plus, Jo knows the cleverest hairstyles.”

  Pepper rubs her thin hands together. “I have an idea. Maybe Jo could do Melly-Lee’s hair. What do you say, Caroline?”