The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  Old Gin believed he could do it. He would believe in me.

  Mrs. Payne has opened the gunnysack and smooths the camel felt with her hand. “Well, please give Old Gin our best—”

  “Of course, Sweet Potato will still be racing,” I hear myself say. My heart begins to squirm around in my chest. Noemi grins and holds her hands tightly in prayer.

  Mrs. Payne stops fiddling with the hat. The sunlight sifting through the rafters draws lines like prison bars on her face. “Oh? Who will be her jockey?”

  I stamp down a foot and imagine an entire flock of crows scattering before me. “Me.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  My wife ain’t talking to me. She talks fine to our children and our dog, so I know she ain’t gone mute. What happened is she pruned the trees too early and now they stunted. I told her she should have never fooled with stuff she don’t know about. Then she told me I’m the one who’s stunted. How can I get her to talk to me again?

  Stunted

  Dear Stunted,

  The two words that will change your life are “thank you.” Like a candle that can light a thousand more without shortening its own life, appreciation is a gift that, when given, can set the whole world aglow. Do your part in passing it along.

  Yours truly,

  Miss Sweetie

  * * *

  —

  Even the horses fall silent at my proclamation. Mrs. Payne’s mouth hangs half open in shock. “You.” She shakes herself free of her stupor. “I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be proper.” Maybe hearing the hypocrisy in her words, she adds, “Not to mention unsafe, not just for you, but the other horses and riders.”

  I stroke Sweet Potato’s sleek nose. “You can avoid a protest.”

  “Those suffragists will protest regardless.”

  “Not if I win.”

  She snorts, and the sound squares my jaw. But she is glaring at a knot in the floor, and I wonder if her reaction is more complicated than I think.

  Noemi finishes tying her rope and busily stacks pails. “Remember that baby-eating spider, ma’am,” she casually drops. “Controversy sells.”

  Mrs. Payne straightens a halter hanging askew on a nail. It flops to one side again, and she shakes her head. Before she can refuse me, I put the final feather in the cap. “Plus, I have been told there is horse-riding in my blood.”

  The statement stamps a hoof before her, daring her to turn away. It is the first acknowledgment of our shared lineage, a final choice between pride and shame. Her choice.

  Her chin becomes a small fist. “I will add you to the roster.”

  “Thank you. And one more thing. I trust there will be no unmasking of Miss Sweetie. Seems she is not the only one wearing a mask.”

  She coughs. The dust seems to hold its pattern around her, until at last, she nods. “I understand.”

  * * *

  —

  I RIDE SWEET Potato through Six Paces, though having my skirts hitched up on the cross saddle hinders my speed. On the turnaround, I nearly tumble off. I will be wearing trousers in the race, but I begin to doubt myself all over again.

  There will be professional jockeys in the ring, men who know all the tricks. The only trick I know is the one where you pull up your knees and pivot in the saddle, but that one’s not going to speed me to the finish any faster.

  Returning to the estate, I kiss Sweet Potato’s face and hand her to Mr. Crycks.

  Only his door-knocker mustache moves when he talks. “Tell Old Gin to come back before Sweet Potato decides she likes me better.”

  “Will do, Mr. Crycks. Thank you for watching after her. See you tomorrow.”

  When I return to the Bells’, Old Gin stares dreamily out the open window. There’s a slow but steady limp to his breathing. On the nightstand, a half-empty cup of tea weighs down a copy of today’s Focus. He doesn’t seem to notice me, even when I kneel in front of him. Bear sits patiently at attention next to me.

  “It’s the tincture,” whispers Mrs. Bell, pulling a basket from under the bed. “I used it once when my arthritis was bad, and it really sets your mind to sail. But at least he won’t be feeling too much pain.”

  I touch his arm to assure him that I am here. “Sweet Potato says hello, and so does Mr. Crycks, Daylily, Portia, Charlie-Sam, Bullet, and Justice. Pirate, Frederick, Ameer, and Liberty Bell are out working.” His good eye wanders to me and then closes.

  I follow Mrs. Bell to the parlor, leaving the door to Old Gin’s room open in case he wakes. A chambray couch with worn arms cradles us comfortably. She sorts through her basket, which contains knitted caps. Bear noses through the basket, too. “Does Old Gin favor any particular color?”

  I’m about to choose a buckskin-brown one. We’ve always worn only plain colors so we don’t stand out. But Old Gin won’t be standing out or even standing up anytime soon. I bet he’d like the orange one. Once, a woman gave him an orange as a tip for escorting her jittery horse across the tracks. After we slowly consumed the “noble fruit,” he declared it even better than the mandarins he remembered in China. “Orange, please. I’ve never seen so many beautiful yarns.”

  “My family are farmers. We own lots of sheep.”

  Bear woofs, and Mrs. Bell pats her on the head. “Yes, you could’ve been chasing after those smelly puffballs instead of roughing it with us here in the city.”

  “Mrs. Bell, you must let me take care of the house chores while we stay here. I can do everything except, well, cook. But even with that, if you could direct me, I’m a quick learner.”

  “We never noticed smoke from your stove. What did you eat?”

  “Black-eyed peas and things that could be steeped. We only used our stove when your fireplace was lit.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Easy. The exhaust pipe would get warm.”

  “What about light?” She draws out an orange cap with white stripes, and sets it on a side table.

  “Lenses built into the walls. From the outside, they’re hidden by the boxwood. Old Gin cleared them from time to time of leaves and dirt.”

  Her smile pulls her face into delicate wrinkles. “I would love a proper tour. First, there is someone I would like you to meet.” She rises stiffly, then makes for a door in the wall.

  The door to the print shop.

  Inside, Nathan and Mr. Bell hover over their desk, the desk, which looks wonderfully old yet strong, and on whose back hundreds of thousands of words have been written. While the sight of the publisher pours a thrill down my spine, so does simply standing in this room. I inhale the iron-y smell of the press, the ink, and burnt cedar, which all together smell like creativity and progress. The sight of the ventilation in the wall, so cunningly designed as to be barely noticeable, squeezes a gasp from me.

  “None of the players will talk to us.” Mr. Bell’s extra-large voice carries easily to us across the floorboards. “They all signed exclusives with the Constitution. If only we had an angle.”

  “Ah, there she is,” says Nathan, straightening.

  Mr. Bell stands the same height as his son, though he is thicker in build and more emphatic in expression. A knitted cap hugs his rather lumpy head. He removes the spectacles from the end of his ponderous nose and tucks them into the pocket of his linen coat. In four strides, we are face-to-face, his good ear cocked slightly toward me.

  Peering at me through bloodshot brown eyes, he rubs the stubble on his chin, maybe working out what to say. My nerves lick the back of my neck. He must have just arrived on the morning train. “So, Mrs. Payne’s illegitimate Chinese daughter has been living under the house all these years.” The statement echoes in the room, with its lack of furniture or rugs.

  “Sir, I am sorry for all the . . . inconvenience.” A more accurate word would be upheaval. “My grandfather and I are in y
our debt. Please be assured we will pay you back as soon as we can.”

  He makes a brushing motion with his hand, as if shooing my words away. “We are the ones in your debt. Subscriptions have reached—” He glances at Nathan.

  “Almost two thousand two hundred,” Nathan nearly crows.

  My breath falls out of me. And still one week left in March.

  “Maybe I should leave more often.” He hikes his belt up over his midsection, but it slides back down. “Course, I’m not sure I could keep up with all the houseguests.”

  “Apologize for that, George.”

  “I am sorry. You and your grandfather are certainly welcome in our home.”

  The mail slot opens, and a letter sails through, skidding on the floor until it lands beside a feed sack full of more letters. Nathan retrieves it.

  Mr. Bell begins to pace, arms held behind his back. “You don’t look like a rabble-rouser. Yet, I understand you’ve stirred up quite a fizz.” He stops pacing and shoves his gaze at me. “Any other surprises I should know about?”

  “Well, actually . . .”

  The whole room grows ears.

  “You wanted an angle on the horse race, and I have one. There is to be a thirteenth contestant. Me.”

  Nathan and his father respond at the same time. “You?”

  “It was supposed to be Old Gin on our horse, Sweet Potato.”

  The letter Nathan is holding crunches in his fist. “This is madness.”

  His father harrumphs. “Dangerous place, the track. Saw a horse take a bad fall on a sprint a few years back and had to be put down.”

  “Don’t scare the girl.” Mrs. Bell puts a warm hand on my arm. “Jo, it’s true the racetrack is no place for beginners.”

  “I know. But Old Gin wouldn’t have entered her if he didn’t think she was as good as the others.”

  Nathan’s eyebrows tighten. “It’s not your . . . Wait, your horse is a mare? The deuce—sorry, Mother—it’s not your mare that we’re worried about.”

  “I can assure you that I am an experienced rider.”

  “Is it the money you need? Does Billy Riggs have something over you?”

  “No.”

  “George. Now would be a good time to ask her.”

  “Ask me?”

  Mr. Bell hitches up his belt again. “Yes, well, we could use some help here, though pay wouldn’t be much to start. Of course, room and board would be included for you and your grandfather, either here in the house or, er, downstairs.”

  “Though perhaps a few improvements are in order if the latter,” says Mrs. Bell.

  All the words collect at my door, waiting for it to open. “You, you are offering me a job?”

  Nathan holds himself stiffly by the elbows. “Yes. In addition to the Miss Sweetie column, you could assist with typesetting and research.”

  “But wouldn’t we be breaking the law? People would think I was white.”

  Mr. Bell sweeps up a finger. “I’d wager most of the agony aunts are actually agony uncles. People don’t care who it is, as long as the advice is good.”

  “Maybe one day”—Nathan glances at his father—“you could write columns under your own name.” Mr. Bell’s jaw loosens, and Nathan quickly adds, “It is clear she is a good writer, not to mention more than a little knowledgeable about what goes on here.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Well, girl, what do you think?”

  “I think that’s . . .” My throat constricts, siphoning off words. “This is too generous of you.” The idea that one day people might read Jo Kuan’s thoughts and viewpoints in print whirs the pages of my mind. I never imagined someone like me could be permitted to write using my name, but perhaps when you live in a basement, you get used to a low ceiling. The Bells are willing to take a risk on me, so why hesitate?

  The mail slot opens again, and a gloved hand stuffs in another letter.

  Mrs. Bell presses her hands together. “You would be a help to me in the home as well. With every year, it seems my joints get rustier.”

  Three pairs of hopeful eyes press into me. Here is the family that I always wanted, wanting me back. I swallow down my emotions before they leak out of my face. “I will need to talk it over with Old Gin.”

  Mr. Bell nods. “Certainly, your grandfather must be consulted.”

  “As for the horse race, I’m afraid it is something I have to do.” Nathan’s eyes pick a fight with me, but I study the tight weave of Mrs. Bell’s shawl. A community is like that shawl, and once you are a part of it, you tie your fate to the threads closest to you. Would I be creating a hardship for the Bells if I raced? If something were to happen to me, the Bells would feel obligated to take care of me, just like with Old Gin.

  Nathan pins his elbows to his side. His father’s face tightens around the mouth, the look of one reining in words. It is Mrs. Bell who lifts her voice. “The path to progress has never been without risk, whether that path be a march for the vote or an eight-furlong stretch. Jo, if you feel you can do this, we are behind you.”

  Mr. Bell lets out a long breath. “I don’t know, Laney, if she were my daughter—”

  “If she were your daughter, you would be stitching the number on her saddle pad yourself.”

  “I don’t even know how to sew,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t dispute her statement. “Well, you’ve certainly given us an angle. Nathan, maybe you can even draw—wait, where are you going?”

  Nathan grabs his coat and his Homburg from the wall hook and then, without glancing back, strides out the shop door.

  I bet I know exactly where he’s going.

  Old Gin has begun to stir, so I feed him some broth. Then I coax Bear from the room, bringing the used bowl to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bell is taking tea. “May I take Bear for a walk?”

  “I’m sure she would love that. The leash is by the door.”

  I tuck my braid under Old Gin’s cap, which I’ve taken to wearing out. Then I attach Bear’s leash to her collar. The afternoon sun heats the grass in front of the Bell residence, putting a sour tickle in my nose. Lowering myself to Bear’s level, I comb the hair out of her eyes. I might not know where Nathan went, but she does.

  “Okay, Bear, take me to Avalon.”

  Woof. She licks me on the nose. Then with a flick of her head, as if to say let’s go, she sets off.

  Forty

  Bear leads me north along a street full of shotgun houses, long dwellings whose inside doorways line up so you could fire a shot through the front and out the back without hitting any walls. Of course, I don’t know why anyone would want to do that, but not everything in Atlanta comes with an explanation.

  After a mile of walking, the houses thin and the landscape grows scraggly, gangs of trees edging out the sky. The sound of running water strums along to the honks of passing geese. I begin to wonder whether Bear knows where she’s going or whether she’s just happy to be on the prowl. “Where’s Nathan, Bear? I hope we’re going to Avalon because I’m getting bunions on my bunions.”

  Just as I’m about to call off the search, she dives into a screen of brush so tangled, I couldn’t throw a shoe through it without it bouncing back. I push aside the brush and find that it gives easier than it looks. I follow Bear up a small incline.

  Below, a rocky stream about forty feet across runs with clear water. A flattish rock in the shape of a newsboy cap lies midstream. Nathan sits at the lip of the cap, feet dangling over the water, a book open on his lap.

  Woof!

  Nathan looks up, and his Homburg scans from side to side. He closes the book and gets to his feet. Bear bounds down to the stream and zigzags over a series of rocks to reach him.

  “Hello,” I call over the water. “So, this is Avalon.” With the tree line obscuring the road and the hills beyond, it is hard to recognize this as part of Atlanta. Lacel
ike ferns brush at my face, and the cool air smells sweet and green.

  Nathan embraces his dog and rubs her on the neck. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or . . .”

  “Depressed.”

  A reluctant smile peeks out from the shadow of his hat.

  I lift my skirts and hop onto the first rock.

  “No, stay there, I’ll come—”

  The second rock is only a fist-size bump, so I quickly step to the third, then fourth, and then—

  “No, not that one!”

  The last rock wobbles, and my boot begins to slip, but I leap onto Nathan’s rock. With a curse, he catches me by the arm.

  “I don’t fall easily,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t release my arm, and my heart flops around like a landed fish. “I don’t fall easily either,” he says quietly.

  Giddy goobers, suddenly I don’t feel so sure-footed at all.

  He lets go his grip, but the warmth of it still makes my arm tingle.

  “It’s not much.” He sweeps an arm to the far end of the rock. “As you can see, the magic apple trees are not yet in season. Care to sit on my couch?”

  I carefully lower myself to the lip of the newsboy-cap rock. “The unicorn tapestries are a nice touch.”

  “Thank you. I do the decorating myself.” He points to a depression a few feet from where we are sitting. “There is where Excalibur was forged. Er, that’s a sword.”

  “I know. Your father used Excalibur to slay the headless horseman under your bed. You’d come into the print shop night after night.” I smile at the memory, though one look at Nathan’s startled face chases my smile away. “I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t be. I guess I’m still getting used to the idea that you already know me.”

  Our feet dangle over the water, which breaks in a froth of bubbles around our rock. Bear returns from where she had gone to quench her thirst and plants herself on Nathan’s other side. Draping an arm around her, he watches the stream in the same steady way he regards the world, absorbing much, giving away little.