The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “What I’ve done to you?” echoed Father. “What about what you’ve done to me? What about what you took from me?”

  I threw up my hands. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that could justify him burning my books and throwing the covers in the slop pail. “Took from you! What did I ever take from you?”

  Father stepped forward. “I had a wife,” he said, and there was so much hatred in his voice that it sent a chill down my spine. “She was a good worker and a helpmeet, till you came along. We had three sons, and the doctor told her not to have another. He said she wasn’t strong —”

  I couldn’t believe he was blaming me for Ma’s death. “She wasn’t strong because you worked her to death!” I shrieked. “She was too frail to do all that work! I helped her — you worked her to death —”

  He went for me then. I must have known he was going to strike me, because I dodged the blow and shot for the door. Down the stairs I went, and I had it in my mind to dash out the kitchen door and escape into the darkness. But at the bottom of the stairs I turned to face him. I clutched the newel post to my bosom like a shield. “Don’t you dare strike me!” I yelled, and I scarcely knew my own voice; it was so low and harsh and fierce.

  I stop now, writing this. Because I think — I think — that even though I was shouting at Father, I meant the boys to hear me. It all happened so fast, and I was in the grip of passion. But I think that at the back of my mind, there was an idea that if the boys knew Father meant to strike me, they might come.

  But they didn’t. Father stopped halfway down the stairs, as if there were a barrier between us that he didn’t want to cross. I could feel his glare in the darkness. “She wanted a little girl!” he yelled, and I never heard the words little girl sound so terrible in all my life. They sounded like profanity. “After you were born, she didn’t give two cents about anything but you.” His voice rose to a falsetto; he was mimicking Ma. “‘Joan has to have hair ribbons! Joan has to have a doll! Joan has to go to high school! Promise me you won’t ever hit Joan! ’” He dropped the falsetto and bellowed, “She turned her back on her husband and forgot her sons! All she cared about was her precious Joan —”

  “That’s not true!” I shouted, but it was no use, because now Father was thundering at me, and the things he said came so fast it was as if they were hailstones. He said I was stuck-up and conceited and a sneak, always reading instead of doing my chores. He said he’d promised Ma he wouldn’t hit me, but that a good whipping might have been the saving of me, only it was too late now. He said I was idle and clumsy and such a big ugly ox of a girl that nobody’d ever take me off his hands. I can’t even remember all the cruel things he said, but listening to them was like having someone hold my nose and tip back my head and pour poison into my mouth. At first I cried out in defiance, saying I wasn’t, and none of it was true. But after a while I only cried. I put my head down on the newel post and waited for him to stop. After a long time I heard him go up the stairs. He shut the bedroom door with a bang.

  Then all was quiet, except for my sobs. But the quiet was terrible. I knew the boys must have heard us shouting, but they hadn’t come to protect me. The fight was between Father and me, and they were content that it should be so. If even one of my brothers — oh, Mark!— had come downstairs and spoken up for me, or come to console me, I would have knelt down and clasped my arms around his boots. But there was only silence.

  And now I think — oh, it makes me miserable to write it — that some of what Father said was true. I don’t mean that Ma did anything wrong. I’m sure she loved us all the same, but she did favor me, and I guess the boys were jealous. I think about Luke, especially, because we used to play together when we were little things. Then he turned seven, and Father took him in hand. Luke turned nasty, seems like overnight. I missed him, but Ma told me that Luke was a big boy now and didn’t have time to play with little girls.

  I never thought about it before, but that time must have been hard on Luke. One day he was a little boy, playing with me and helping Ma in the house. And the next day, he was outside with Father, not as big or as strong or as good at anything as his big brothers. Father wouldn’t have made allowances. Father doesn’t like Luke — never has.

  So writing this, now, I find myself feeling sorry for Luke. But that makes me angry, too, because I’m already sorry for myself, and having to feel sorry for him seems like another cross to bear.

  I can’t even pity myself in peace.

  It’s almost dinnertime. I’ll have to go down soon if I’m to get a hot dinner on the table and get back up here before the men come back. I can’t face them — I know I can’t face Father, and I don’t want to see the boys.

  I don’t see how this is all going to end. I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding out in my room. I guess what will happen — oh, I can see it!— is that with every day that passes, my anger will grow duller. I won’t forgive — I can never forget — but things will go back to the way they were. Except that now I have no books. No books.

  I wish I could run away. When Florence Dombey’s father struck her, she ran away to Captain Cuttle — but there’s the rub; she had somewhere to go. I don’t have anywhere. I had a sort of daydream this morning, telling myself I might run away to Miss Chandler. I imagined her clasping me in her arms and saying that I could live with her from now on. I pictured myself helping her at school, teaching reading to the primary class, and ironing her pretty clothes back at the boardinghouse. One way or another, I’d make myself useful, and she’d teach me. Then I’d get a teacher’s license and pay her back. Once I had money, I’d rent a room in the same boardinghouse. We’d be together always.

  It was a beautiful daydream and made me cry buckets. But when I tried to work out the details, I saw that it wouldn’t work, because Miss Chandler couldn’t take care of a runaway girl. People would criticize her, and she might get in trouble with the school board. A teacher has to be so careful.

  And what would I do if I went to Miss Chandler and she sent me away? What if she told me to do my duty and honor my father, because that’s what’s in the Commandments? I think my heart would break even worse than it’s broken now.

  I suppose I could run away to Great-Aunt Alma, but she’s almost as horrible as Father.

  When Jane Eyre was tired of teaching at Lowood, she prayed for a new servitude. I remember that, her saying, “Grant me at least a new servitude!” She didn’t think she could attain anything better, like Liberty or Excitement or Enjoyment, but she thought she might stand a chance with a new job. Of course, it all worked out beautifully for her, because when she became a governess, she met Mr. Rochester. But I’m unluckier than Jane, because I haven’t education enough to be a governess, and besides —

  I’ve been staring into space for five minutes, thinking and thinking. I’ve been thinking about a new servitude.

  I’ve been thinking about six dollars a week.

  Great-Aunt Alma — Philadelphia — Baltimore.

  Hairpins — Ma’s old brown hat.

  Stitch flounce for brown dress.

  Cardboard suitcase — still in attic?

  Belinda.

  Saturday, July the first, 1911

  I am writing this from the ladies’ waiting room, Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. I have escaped! I have achieved the first stage of my emancipation! In a little while, I will go on to Baltimore — that’s the second stage of my journey — and from thence I will begin my new life.

  I have been through so many emotions today — such terrors and sorrows! such mounting hopes, such exquisite sensations of relief! I’m proud of myself because I haven’t been a coward, not one bit. My heart is racing even as I write, but I plan to go on as bravely as a heroine in a novel. For the worst is over, and I believe I have circumvented Father.

  Once my mind was made up, I planned my escape with great care and cunning. I knew I’d have to look older, both to elude pursuit and to convince my future employers that I am a mature and re
sponsible female. I unearthed the bolt of chocolate-brown twill that Father bought for next year’s dress and added a flounce to this year’s dress, so that the hem almost touches the ground. And I’ve pinned my hair up in a knot on top of my head. I felt a pang when I put up my hair, because Miss Chandler doesn’t like it when girls try to look older than they are. When Libby Watkins — who is only sixteen — put her hair on top of her head, without even a bow, Miss Chandler thought it was very sad. She says that girls grow up too fast nowadays. Of course when she said that, I agreed heartily, because Libby’s awful stuck-up.

  But here I am, only fourteen, with my hair skewered on top of my head and held tight with thirteen hairpins. It’s uncomfortable because my hair is so heavy that the hairpins don’t anchor it, and the knot lurches when I move my head. But I look older in my long dress — goodness, I look almost matronly! Not half an hour ago, I transformed myself in the ladies’ room here. Oh, such a ladies’ room! It has pale wood, glossy and smooth as satin, and white marble around the sinks! Everything is so beautifully clean and hygienic and modern! When I compare it to what we have back home —

  No. I actually was going to compare it, but now I’m not, because thinking about things like that is vulgar. And I’ve made up my mind: in my new life, I’m not going to be vulgar. Even though I’m going to be a servant, I’m going to cultivate my finer feelings. I will better myself and write with truth and refinement, just as Miss Chandler said.

  Where was I? Oh, yes — my escape. It seems to me that God Himself is blessing my endeavor, because last night Father checked the almanac, and it turns out that rain is predicted, starting tomorrow afternoon. So of course Father’s afraid of losing the hay crop, and his whole mind is fixed on that.

  I was nervous when I got up this morning, because I knew that this was the day. As soon as the men went out to work, I slipped upstairs to pack. I’d set everything aside: my brown dress with the new long skirt; my nightgown, toothbrush, and comb; Ma’s workbasket; my Bible; and Belinda — oh! Belinda! With what emotion did I snip open her apron on Wednesday, only to discover twenty-nine dollars inside! Twenty-nine dollars! My heart ached when I thought of the long years Ma must have saved to amass such a fortune. I could imagine her trying to get the thirtieth dollar — Ma had an orderly mind, and I know she would have preferred to leave me a round sum. But I guess that thirtieth dollar just wasn’t forthcoming, and she was afraid she’d run out of time.

  I took fourteen of the dollars and sewed the rest back into Belinda’s apron. I brought a cardboard suitcase down from the attic — it was kind of beat-up, but the alternative was carrying my things in a pillowcase. I didn’t pack the suitcase, because I daren’t walk down the hill carrying it. I smashed it and folded it, so I could stuff it in the buckets I use for picking berries.

  Then I dressed myself in last year’s sage-green dress, which is disgracefully short, and fixed my hair in two long braids. I stood before the mirror a long time — no, not a long time, because I hadn’t time to waste, but a few minutes, I’m sure. My heart was pounding, and I dreaded what I had to do next.

  I hadn’t packed Ma’s embroidery scissors. I took them from the dresser and covered my bruised eye with my left hand. My fingers shook, but I brought the blades of the scissors close to the wound and snipped at Dr. Fosse’s stitches. It was hard to cut them without hurting the scabs around the wound, but I managed it: snip — snip — snip. The part that followed was worse — easing the scissor blade under the threads and tugging them out. The scabs held on to the threads, but the pain wasn’t as bad as I expected; it was more the idea of the thing, and only one scab broke open. The whole operation lasted only a few minutes, but by the time I was done, I was queasy and perspiring.

  I wiped the scissors clean and replaced them in Ma’s basket. There was one more thing I wanted. I tiptoed into Father’s room and took Ma’s crucifix off the wall. Ma brought it with her when she married Father, and it’s hung over their bed for twenty-three years. Of course Father was pious when Ma married him, but he was Methodist-pious, not Catholic-pious. Methodists don’t set store by crucifixes; they prefer crosses without anyone on them. I know in the days to come I’ll be needing Jesus to watch over me, so I took Him and wrapped Him in my red flannel petticoat.

  After that, I was ready. I walked barefoot down the lane — my shoes and stockings were in the bucket. That was the strangest part of today — gracious, it was only this morning! — walking down the hill, in plain sight of the men, and knowing that I was leaving forever. I’d announced at breakfast that I meant to spend the day picking blackberries. (The berries are ripe, too, which is another sign from God that I’m leaving home at the right time.)

  I tried to walk as if it was just an ordinary day, as if my buckets were empty. I daren’t pause to look my last on the home of my childhood. A lot of it I didn’t mind leaving — the privy that I’ve cleaned a thousand times, and the chicken house, and that irritating rosebush that’s infested with something that gnarls the roses. But I felt a little sad leaving the chickens, even if they are the most boring chickens in the world. And I felt real regret about leaving my tomato plants. It looks like there’s going to be a fine crop this year.

  The saddest part was walking past the clothesline — isn’t that queer? But as I walked past it, I had this sudden picture in my mind of Ma and me taking the clothes off the line. I remember us folding sheets. We’d stand apart, our arms moving like windmills, perfectly in rhythm. Then we’d walk toward each other with our arms over our heads, so that the sheet wouldn’t touch the ground. It was almost like a dance, and the sheets smelled good after a day in the sun, and we were always happy, because taking the clothes off the line meant the laundry was done for the week.

  When I came to the blackberry thicket, I went straight into it, with the thorns scratching my skin. Once I was hidden from sight, I put on my shoes and stockings and took the suitcase out of the bucket and tried to bash it back into shape. It didn’t look very good, but I packed everything inside it and fastened it with a piece of string. I took the letter I’d written for Father and placed it inside the bucket, with a stone to hold it down.

  It was a very aggravating letter. I meant it to be, because I don’t want Father coming after me. I told him I was going to stay with Great-Aunt Alma in Lancaster. I never thought I should be grateful to have such a disagreeable relation, but I am grateful, because Father hates Great-Aunt Alma and won’t want to follow me to her house. Great-Aunt Alma always says that Ma married beneath herself. She and Father had words on Ma’s wedding day and haven’t spoken since.

  The way I reckon it, the men will come in around noon, and there won’t be any dinner waiting for them. Father will be furious, but he won’t want to waste time looking for me; he’ll want to get the hay in. The boys will make a nasty mess in the kitchen, fixing their own dinner, but this time I won’t have to clean it up. Nobody will find my letter until suppertime, and they’ll be too tired from haying to follow me to Lancaster.

  They might not come after me at all. Father knows that Great-Aunt Alma is so horrid that nobody in her right mind could stay with her long. Very likely he’ll expect me to come home on my own accord, with my tail between my legs. By the time he finds out I never went to Great-Aunt Alma’s, I’ll be settled in Baltimore.

  So I think I’m safe. But all the same, I mean to leave a crooked trail behind me — I went first to Lancaster, then east to Philadelphia, changed my appearance, and will go from here to Baltimore. I considered going to New York City, which Miss Chandler says is an imposing metropolis but full of foreigners and a little bit vulgar. If I wanted vulgar, I could get it homegrown. So I won’t go there.

  I wasn’t too scared when I took the milk train to Lancaster, because I’ve done that before, but I began to feel frightened when I got on the train to Philadelphia. I couldn’t help thinking about all that lies before me — finding a respectable boardinghouse and looking for work. I guess I could work in a factory, but I’m afr
aid of that. Last spring there was a terrible fire in one of the New York factories, and all the girls — the workers were almost all girls — were locked inside, and they had to jump out the windows, ten stories down, or be burned to death. Miss Chandler cried when she told me about it. The horror of it haunted me for weeks. Those poor girls! I think I’ll be safer in a regular home, working as a hired girl.

  Luckily, I have plenty of money — that’s the great thing. I won’t have to take the first job I see. On the other hand, I’m all alone in the world. Once I was on my way to Philadelphia, I started thinking about that, and the more I thought about it, the more melancholy I felt. I was bound and determined that I would not cry in public, but I kept catching my breath, and my bosom heaved — or is it hove? I think hove is a real word, but it doesn’t sound right. At any rate, one of the porters — they all seem to be Negroes and awful nice — came to me and told me, in ever such a kind way, that they were having the last sitting for breakfast, and he didn’t want me to miss it if I was hungry. He said he’d show me the way to the dining car.

  I never meant to eat in the dining car, because I didn’t know what it might cost. But the man was so nice, and so sure that I would follow him, that I had to go. I didn’t think I could eat a morsel. But the dining car was so splendid that I forgot my melancholy. The table linen was milky white and starched, and the silverware shone like the harvest moon. A waiter saw me and held out my chair as if I was a lady. On the table was a thick glass goblet filled with ice water, and a little bowl full of butter, and a vase with a pink rosebud. And I smelled ham broiling, and my stomach growled with hunger.

  So I unfolded the menu — it was beautiful creamy paper, engraved with black. I almost fainted when I saw the prices. Ham and eggs was sixty cents! — with eggs only nine cents a dozen! The train people ought to be ashamed of themselves, asking for that. At first I thought I should just order dry toast (ten cents) because that was the cheapest thing on the menu, and then I thought I’d order buttered toast (fifteen), but then I just threw caution to the wind and ordered everything I wanted. I don’t know what Ma would think of me, wasting a whole dollar on breakfast. I don’t know what got into me. I was just so hungry and shaky and scared and dazzled that I couldn’t think straight.