The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  “It’s a shame clerks don’t come in the color brown.” He squeezes out a smile and bumps a fist against the table. “Guess you heard about our latest purchase.”

  “It is a fine bicycle,” I say half-heartedly. When the situation calls for comfort as opposed to advice, I am remarkably inept. Old Gin would know what to say. The rest of us struggle to find the words, whereas he just plucks the right ones out of the air, like dandelion fluff.

  Robby squares a stack of cigar boxes on the counter, and then shines up a brass cash register with a rag, lean arms moving with efficient strokes. “I knew she wanted a baby, I just didn’t expect it to come with pneumatic tires. The thing is, Jo, we need Noemi’s wages. A deliveryman’s income ain’t enough for both of us.”

  He folds his rag into a square. The door opens, letting in more customers. Robby glances toward them, and then says, “Better give me your shopping list and your bag.”

  I hand him my shopping bag, which I sewed myself out of a damask curtain. “I need a half gallon of kerosene, soap, matches, a dozen candles, and your cheapest pair of ladies’ gloves, size small. Also, what do you know about Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir?”

  “Mr. Buxbaum says we can’t keep it on the shelf. Let me check if there are any in the stockroom.”

  He disappears through a doorway. I study a display case of beaded patches and premade bows. Prefabricated adornment is the rage. The modern woman wants a quick and inexpensive way to deck herself out. A daisy made of chicken feathers sells for three cents. Banditry! All it takes is a little glue and a windy day by your local farm.

  The front door opens once more to the ringing of bells, and a chill seeps through the worn spots in my coat. High-heeled boots clap like thunder across the floorboards. The monkeys of mischief have been eavesdropping on my worries.

  Billy Riggs saunters toward me.

  Fifteen

  I feign interest in a length of silk cord, monitoring Billy in a looking glass. He sports a teal cutaway and vest, carrying his twenty-something years with the assurance of someone who has decided the world has nothing more to teach him. Old Gin told me to stay away from this man. But if I leave now, he could simply follow me.

  The man stops to finger something at a table marked OPTICS. “The Jew must be rich as rhino fat.” He must be talking to me, as the other customers are out of earshot. He has a quick way of snapping his words together without opening his mouth much, the way they do in the mountain areas of north Georgia. “Five whole dollars for this magnifying glass. Of course, one should never confuse cost with value.”

  He surveys the shop through the glass. “My, my”—the glass stops, and his penny eyes find mine watching him through the mirror—“this place has all sorts of curiosities. A pleasure to see you again, miss.” He bows, not the courteous kind that gentlemen do, but a farcical bending of the knees, one heel out, hand stirring the air with the magnifying glass.

  A centipede-like shiver crawls down my back, and I withdraw my gaze. Hammer Foot said that not engaging is a victory in itself.

  “We don’t get a lot of coolies here. Yet the ones that come always end up scratching at my door.”

  I finally turn around. The man stands a hand taller than me, but mostly on account of the boots. A fire grows in my belly, and some steam wants out. Miss Sweetie lifts her chin. “I wouldn’t scratch at your door if it were gilded an inch deep.”

  His head tilts to one side, and his cocky grin hardens into something more menacing. “I wouldn’t be so sure. If anyone can help that old horseman, it’s you.” He laughs at my stricken expression, but I can scarcely compose myself with all the questions flooding my mind. By “horseman,” he couldn’t mean Old Gin, could he? But why would Old Gin need help?

  My nose floods with the too-sweet scent of Billy’s cologne mingled with the metallic stench of corruption.

  I wet my lips, which have gone dry. “What do you mean?”

  “Information isn’t free.”

  Robby returns with my damask bag, which he sets on the counter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Billy?” He looks directly at the man, and my heart clutches at his boldness. There are unspoken rules in the South that govern how blacks and whites interact, including that blacks do not look whites in the eye. If those rules are ever broken, there are consequences, sometimes unspeakable ones.

  Billy’s eyes narrow. “So the Jew now trusts the colored with his treasury. Ain’t that like letting a crow guard the night crawlers?” He laughs.

  It occurs to me that men are the real sauceboxes, but no one ever calls them sauceboxes because they are allowed to say what they want—at least the white ones. Billy jabs the magnifying glass toward the neatly arranged tonics behind Robby. “I want a bottle of Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir.” He pronounces elixir as if he is actually licking the word out of the air.

  I cross to the counter and rummage through my bag, more for something to do than to verify the contents. My hand comes across a glass flask with etchings.

  “Sorry, but we’re out of Pendergrass.” Robby shows the space on the shelf where they would be. “Just sold the last one.”

  I let go of the flask and withdraw my hand from the bag.

  “Well, get more.” Billy Riggs flourishes his arms, as though for emphasis. He could be a play actor if vice didn’t pay so well.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Shipment’s not due until a week from Tuesday. How about Marbury’s Tonic? It’s got a good price on it, and also comes with a money-back guarantee.”

  “Sounds like you got a hearing problem. I said I wanted Pen-der-grass.”

  The moment turns brittle as frosted glass. Two women who have drifted closer to us trade worried glances and then hurriedly exit the store.

  Robby’s pliant mouth thins, matching the dark slashes of his eyebrows. “The shipment’s not due until a week from Tuesday. And only God can make those trains come faster.”

  It is hard to argue with that, but Billy’s leg has begun to twitch. Hammer Foot says jittery energy needs stabilizing to focus it, like an arrow needs fletching to fly straight. Billy’s father, rumored to have been a crook worse than Billy, could hardly have given him the fletching he needed to fly a straight path.

  “I don’t know about that, Robby. I heard Mr. Thomas Edison’s so clever, he could make even a train fly,” I drop.

  Robby clears his throat, cutting me a warning glance. Billy’s leg stops twitching, and he refocuses his sights on me. The tsk of his tongue sounds like a match strike.

  “Shall I wrap that glass for you?” Robby’s casual tone smooths the hackles in the air.

  The man’s gaze drifts to my damask bag, still lying on the counter next to me, and before I can say “Pendergrass,” he has snaked my bag from under my nose. “Well now, what sort of shopping did you do today?”

  “Those are mine!” Miss Sweetie’s wrathiness overtakes my tongue.

  Billy’s eyes widen, but then a grin spreads across the crook’s face. “I don’t see a bill of sale.”

  Robby’s face folds into a grimace. Setting down the magnifying glass, Billy withdraws my items one by one: kerosene, matches, soap, candles, gloves. “Aha!” He grips the flask in a mean fist and brings it into the light. “Teeth rinse?”

  Robby crosses his arms, impatience pedaling around on his face. “We have more if you’d like, sir. We could all stand to take better care of our teeth.”

  Billy sets down the flask so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. He picks up his magnifying glass again. With flair, he holds up a five-dollar bill and lets it drop onto the counter, where it lies like a dead leaf. “Mind you save me a bottle of that Pendergrass from your next shipment. And, Miss Kuan, come see me sometime. Offers don’t last forever.”

  My spleen curdles. He knows my name, which means he knows I am related to Old Gin. Unless he is bluffing.

  We watch him s
wagger to the exit. Not until he has left the shop do I resume breathing.

  Robby carefully wraps each of my items in newspaper. “Whatever he’s offering, best leave it on the table.”

  “Don’t worry. If I was a mouse and the world’s last hunk of cheese was sitting on his table, I wouldn’t be tempted in the least.” The memory of Shang’s letter unfolds in my mind. Had Shang been one of the Chinese who had scratched on his door?

  “Glad to see he didn’t take the fizz off you.”

  “No, sir.” My hands shake as I fit my items back into my bag. “You?”

  “No, Jo, still bubbly.” He grins. “The teeth rinse is on me to celebrate your new job.”

  “Thank you. My teeth appreciate it.”

  He fits the last of my items back into my bag. “He was in here the other day, offering to ‘influence’ the horse race in favor of Mr. Buxbaum’s thoroughbred, Sunday Surprise. Of course, Mr. Buxbaum refused.”

  “So why come back?”

  Robby grins, pulling a four-ounce green bottle from his breast pocket. “Maybe because we’re the only ones who sell Pendergrass.”

  * * *

  —

  I THREAD MY way back to the basement, the memory of Billy Riggs soiling my mind like a dirty fingerprint. I try to wipe it clean, but only spread it around further. Had he followed me to Buxbaum’s? He seemed legitimately interested in the Pendergrass, but it could’ve been an act.

  If he’d followed me, presumably it was to try to scare me into believing Old Gin had something to do with the debt. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Create a need, and sell the solution. Well, I won’t fall for it. Old Gin would never have trucked with the likes of Billy or his father. I would bet all the money in our work boots on it.

  * * *

  —

  I SPEND THE Lord’s Day safely indoors, redeeming my holy soul, or rather the holey soles in my stockings.

  After three days of toiling under Caroline, it’s a wonder my arms can do more than swing. But gamely, they hang in there, like two unsold salamis in the butcher’s window. I flex one of the salamis and am pleased to feel the hard ridges of my muscles. Hammer Foot would be happy to know that I am keeping physically active—a strong body means a strong mind, as the Chinese say. I would much prefer my capable arms over Caroline’s, which are only expected to lift reins and rotate fans.

  Miss Sweetie observes that the higher up on the social ladder one ascends, the less one needs to master the basic skills in life. Perhaps the idea is to free up time for higher pursuits, such as academics or the fine arts, though if Caroline is pursuing those, I have yet to see a sign of it.

  When our railroad watch ticks toward seven o’clock in the evening, I fill my mug with barley water before cautiously unplugging the listening tube.

  I brace myself for Bear’s reaction. But Bear is already barking somewhere near the print shop door, where a muffled conversation is taking place, female, by the sound of it.

  “Hanged rats,” mutters Nathan. His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes away from the table.

  “Come. I’ll show you some wool I finished spinning.” Mrs. Bell’s voice comes into focus from farther away.

  “That would be nice,” says a woman whose voice I don’t recognize.

  Two pairs of footsteps cross to the house, and the print shop goes quiet. I rummage under the bed and pull out my writing supplies.

  “Er, won’t you sit down?” says Nathan. Someone else is there?

  “I’ve missed seeing you on Sundays,” a breathy voice floats down the tube. I know that voice.

  Nathan coughs. “Oh. Did we see each other on Sundays?”

  “Oh, Nathan. I always waved to you from my window.”

  I fumble my ink and nearly spill it on my flannel nightgown. What is Lizzie Crump doing up there?

  Sixteen

  “Ah. Well, we have a deliveryman who helps us now,” Nathan tells Lizzie. “Er, how is your father?”

  “He is well,” says Lizzie. “He’s running a horse-race special to encourage people to spruce up their houses before the race. Buy five gallons of Crump Paint and he’ll throw in a brush, free.”

  “Oh. How civic-minded of him.”

  “Well, I’ll get to the point . . .”

  The point must be a few train stops away, judging by the lengthy pause that follows. Bear begins whacking her tail against the wall. Come on, Bear. Put those herding skills to use and drive her out of the paddock.

  “I read Miss Sweetie’s article about the horse race . . . ,” Lizzie says. “And, well, I knew it was a sign.”

  “A sign?”

  “That I should ask you to the horse race.”

  My head nearly knocks against the wall. Sure, Nathan is well-known around town and very eligible, but he’s no charm biscuit. And did it have to be Lizzie? I imagine her sleepy blue eyes, the curtsy of her smile, the strawberry-blond ringlets teasing out the blush in her skin. She is as guileless and hard to resist as the cake hats in Mrs. English’s windows, while I am a lowly shoe who spends half her life squished up against a wall.

  When Nathan doesn’t reply, Lizzie pouts and says, “Someone has already asked you.”

  “No,” Nathan replies hastily, maybe now just realizing how unenthusiastic he sounds. “No.”

  “So it was a sign, because here I am, and there you are.”

  “Yet . . . if it wasn’t a sign, you would still be there, and I would still be here.”

  I imagine the confusion fanning over Lizzie’s face. “So . . . is that a yes, then?”

  “It would be my pleasure to accompany you.”

  My face is stuck in a grimace. I grab my barley water but, in my agitation, misjudge the volume, and the hot liquid sloshes over my fingers. “Agh!” I cry out, dropping the mug. It falls to the concrete floor with a wet crack, along with my heart.

  I don’t move a muscle, hoping that my extreme silence will somehow rub out the noise.

  “Oh! I am looking forward to it,” says Lizzie, who seems to have not caught my outburst in her excitement. “I will let you know my colors by next weekend.”

  Nathan doesn’t answer. I run through at least a dozen potential reactions he might be having. Perhaps he has put his finger to his lips, and now the two of them are kneeling by the newly discovered ventilation grill, their faces close as they listen. Or maybe he has taken a screwdriver to the vent, and she is admiring his manly physique and his adroitness with tools. Being discovered by Nathan would be humiliating enough, but with Lizzie beside him, it would be more than I could bear.

  “Your . . . colors?” he says at last, sounding no closer than the last time he spoke.

  “So you can choose the right flowers.”

  “Er, of course.”

  Dare I hope he didn’t hear me?

  “Oh, Nathan. You’re supposed to bring flowers to the parents of the lady you are courting, reserving one for her to wear on her dress.”

  “Uh, right.”

  Courting. That Lizzie is pretty slick for all her guilelessness, slipping in the word in a way that a gentleman could not deny without being rude. The conversation thins. The visit must be ending.

  I pick up the broken shards of my mug and sop the spilled tea with a rag. Why should it matter if Nathan goes with Lizzie? It is none of my business. Naturally, I would’ve preferred not to have played a role in the matchmaking, but how was I to know?

  I take a sheet of paper and manage to knock my candle clear off its base. I hastily blow it out before it singes my small rug. I sink to the floor. Miss Sweetie frowns on jealousy, an emotion that, like lye, tends to eat away at its container. He has to date someone, eventually, someone who cannot be me under the great laws of Georgia.

  We all must abide by the rules, but some of us must follow more than others. Robby can be a deliveryman but not a
clerk. Mrs. English would never have promoted me to milliner, just as Mr. Payne will never promote Old Gin to head groom. Like Sweet Potato and her twisted leg, we have been born with a defect—the defect of not being white. Only, unlike in Sweet Potato’s case, there is no correcting it. There is only correcting the vision of those who view it as a defect, though not even a war and Reconstruction have been able to do that.

  Miss Sweetie has gone sour.

  I stretch my legs, which I can no longer feel. Too much sitting and thinking creates stagnation in the brain, and stagnation leads to despair. I hop on the balls of my feet and make my breathing effortless.

  Then I grab my pen.

  THE CUSTOM-ARY

  Not to be confused with its more common cousin, the yellow-plumed canary, the custom-ary is a species whose characteristics vary from bird to bird. Some knock about in their cages without reason or purpose (such as the custom of knocking wood to ward off bad luck), while others exhibit more sensible patterns of behavior (such as the custom of driving on the right side of the road). A good number of customs cling stubbornly to their withered branches, though they should’ve been set free of their cages long ago (such as the custom of wearing crinoline slips).

  Finally, there are those that are more cuckoo than customary. For example, the custom of women riding sidesaddle when, from an anatomy standpoint, that honor should go to men. Or the custom of not hiring coloreds for clerks and agents when we trust them to manage our households, even to tuck our children into bed. It is time to release these customs into the wild blue yonder before they push the others out of the nest, as cuckoos are known to do.

  Readers, what customs would you set free?

  Respectfully,

  Miss Sweetie

  There. Sometimes a point is best made by approaching it from a different angle, like how Merritt and I slung the jumping fish from the river rather than catching them head-on. But will the Focus print something so . . . provocative? Definitely not with Mr. Bell at the helm. But Nathan is different from his father. He had pushed his father to print the editorial criticizing streetcar segregation. He’s not the kind of man who stands out in a room, but he is the kind who stands up for his beliefs.