by L. M. Reed
Chapter 3
I made it through my morning classes the next day with barely contained excitement. Figuring that Mrs. Wilson would probably be taking care of lunch for Mrs. Fowlkes between noon and one o’clock, I decided to wait until after that to call.
All of my classes were in the mornings, so I was free except for homework for the rest of the day. By 1:15, I couldn’t wait any longer. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Mrs. Wilson?”
“Allie? Is that you?”
“You remembered.”
“Of course I did. I was hoping you would call. I talked to Mrs. Fowlkes this morning, and she remembers you, also,” Mrs. Wilson said in a pleased tone.
“It’s been a few years, I didn’t know if she would.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted her to. Mother had drug me along with her to tea at Mrs. Fowlkes’ house numerous times, and I could tell instinctively that Mrs. Fowlkes hadn’t thought much of her and by association, me.
“She said you were the prettiest little girl she had ever seen,” Mrs. Wilson was smiling; I could hear it in her voice. “That’s how I knew she had the right girl.”
“Now I’m blushing,” I told her, truthfully.
I was, but from embarrassment. My mother constantly insisted on admiration for me, and then basked in the reflective glory. As I got older, my level of mortification had grown in direct proportion to my age.
“Mrs. Fowlkes is feeling a little better today,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “and would enjoy a short visit with you if you think you might be able to come this afternoon.”
Acknowledging that I would have to face her sooner or later, I sighed quietly. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Fowlkes in years, not since the last tea my mother had forced me into attending, and the horrible events that had followed would not have endeared my family to her.
A few months after the tea, my paternal grandfather died unexpectedly, and the Fowlkes had immediately switched to a different law firm. My father had been a walking thundercloud for days after returning from a visit to their house to convince them to come back to the firm. Even my mother had avoided him.
“Tell Mrs. Fowlkes that I am pleased to hear that she is doing better, and I look forward to seeing her this afternoon,” I replied formally, fixing my mask firmly in place.
We arranged for me to be there at three o’clock and disconnected. I hated hearing the puzzled tone that entered Mrs. Wilson’s voice as we talked. She instinctively realized that something had changed; spontaneous warmth replaced with strict formality. I didn’t want it to happen, but I couldn’t help it. Years of dealing with people like Mrs. Fowlkes had left its mark on me, too deeply engrained to have a hope of ever being erased.
Why did it have to be the Fowlkes? I asked myself in resignation and then might as well get it over with.
I arrived at the house at 2:55, unsure which door I should use. If Mrs. Fowlkes had not involved herself, I would have gone around to the servants’ entrance to see Mrs. Wilson. Protocol demanded that I use the front door, having received what I had to acknowledge as a formal invitation.
This is getting complicated, I grumbled silently.
Mrs. Wilson answered the door with a polite smile. I could see that she too was unsure how to act. Fixing my own polite smile in place to hide the pain, I greeted her formally.
She led me into the sitting room where Mrs. Fowlkes was waiting for me. Mrs. Fowlkes had a fragile air about her that I didn’t remember seeing the last time we were together, which admittedly had been almost ten years, and those years had not been kind to her.
Although she still looked regal and her eyes were as eagle sharp as ever, she was thinner, paler, and more wrinkled. I was surprised she showed no signs of ever submitting to a face-lift. That was so rare a phenomenon in our circle as to be practically unheard of.
“Allison,” Mrs. Fowlkes haughtily held her thin, wrinkled hand out to me.
I took the hand between my two as my mother had engrained into me and curtsied slightly. I didn’t mean to, but I was in full parade mode. Although it had been cute on a little girl, I was almost twenty-one years old and it felt ridiculous. Still, I couldn’t seem to help it. My smile never wavered.
“Mrs. Fowlkes,” I murmured formally, “It is a pleasure to see you again. You are looking well,” I said lying through my teeth.
“Thank you, my dear,” she replied politely and then turned to Mrs. Wilson saying, “I will call you when we are ready for the tea.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson replied and left the room.
It was worse than I thought. Mrs. Wilson was going to wait on me.
How had this happened?
I felt like screaming. I checked my smile…it was still in place.
“I hear you have not been well,” I commented solicitously. “I am glad you are feeling better.”
My mother never allowed me the use of contractions in full parade mode but, over the years, I’d grown lazy, so it was an effort to speak so correctly.
“Did your father send you?”
Mrs. Fowlkes tone was no longer polite and friendly, it was suspicious. As soon as Mrs. Wilson had exited the room, the gloves had come off and with a vengeance.
“My father…?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
Why would she bring him into this? Maybe it was her way of letting me know she planned to tell him what I was doing.
“You aren’t going to tell my father I was here…?” I asked fearfully, my mask slipping a bit.
“Are you saying he is unaware that you managed to snag an invitation to visit me?” she asked in disbelief.
I could feel the first stirrings of anger; at Mrs. Fowlkes, for coming between me and the only person I had connected with in almost five years, and at my father for ruining everything. My parents always ruined everything. I could feel tears threatening; tears of anger, frustration, and despair. My mask slipped further.
“I didn’t come to see you,” I said angrily between clinched teeth, momentarily losing control.
Both of my hands flew up to cover my mouth.
She looked taken aback, “Then why are you here?”
I wouldn’t tell her. I knew if I did something terrible would happen, it invariably did. For Mrs. Wilson’s sake, I had to cover up my mistake.
“She came to see me,” Mrs. Wilson offered from the door of the sitting room.
“You…?” I could see the confusion on Mrs. Fowlkes face. She turned back to me, clearly suspicion, and demanded, “Why would you waste time on a mere peasant?”
“Don’t call her that you old bat!”
All of my carefully constructed self-control was gone as if it had never been. Years of listening to my parents and their friends denigrate the people that worked for them, or even worse, ignore them as if they were nothing, less than nothing, exploded out of me. I was angry for Mrs. Wilson, for Hannah, for all of the people unfortunate to have to work for snobs like my parents and, apparently, Mrs. Fowlkes was no better.
“According to your mother that’s what she is,” Mrs. Fowlkes’ eyes narrowed “A mere peasant, a piece of furniture, if you will.”
“No she’s not!” I contradicted angrily jumping up in agitation, “She’s a person, a real person with real emotions.” Hannah had taught me that, along with a million other things I would never forget. “And people like my parents, and you,” I pointed an accusatory finger at Mrs. Fowlkes, “don’t deserve the things she and others like her do for you.”
“Mrs. Fowlkes isn’t like that, Allie,” Mrs. Wilson assured me. “She…
“It’s alright Elsee,” Mrs. Fowlkes interrupted her. “Why don’t you bring in the tea now, I think we could all use some,” she suggested.
Without a word, Mrs. Wilson left. I glared at Mrs. Fowlkes angrily, hands on my hips, breathing heavily. She returned my glare with a long measuring look. We eyed each othe
r in silence until Mrs. Wilson returned carrying a tray.
“Why don’t you both have a seat and Allison, would you mind pouring the tea?”
Her voice was almost…friendly. I stared at her in confusion. Not only had I insulted her, I had raised my voice to her; she should have been having me thrown out not inviting me to pour out.
“The tea, Allison?” she prompted me.
I gave myself a mental shake, sat down, and mechanically complied.
“I take two lumps and Elsee takes hers with a dash of milk,” she mentioned conversationally.
Once we settled down with our tea, Mrs. Fowlkes came straight to the point.
“I would like to know why you are here, Allison, and I would appreciate the truth.”
“We…” Mrs. Wilson tried to answer, but Mrs. Fowlkes waved her to silence.
Without taking her eyes off me, she said, “I would like to hear Allison’s answer, Elsee.”
Mrs. Fowlkes was a sharp lady and with my mask lying in shreds at her feet, figuratively speaking, I suspected she would immediately know if I attempted prevarication. The fact that she knew how Mrs. Wilson took her tea was what decided me. Although it appeared to be nothing more than an insignificant detail, to me it was huge. Neither of my parents would have known or cared if any of their ‘servants’ even liked tea, much less how they drank it.
Taking a deep, calming breath I replied cautiously, “I met Mrs. Wilson yesterday when she came into the craft store a friend of mine owns. I was helping out, restocking the shelves, and Mrs. Wilson asked me for assistance. We began talking and…when she mentioned that she was late and would have to run to catch her bus I offered her a ride home.”
“The daughter of Violet and Lowell Tate was restocking shelves?”
“Please don’t tell them, I was just helping out a friend. I don’t have a job, she doesn’t pay me…”
Mrs. Fowlkes raised her hand, effectively silencing me.
“I haven’t talked to your father in almost ten years, and I don’t plan to change that anytime in the near future. Why did you offer Elsee a ride home?”
The fact that she seemed to dislike my father as much if not more than I did, turned the balance in her favor. I decided to be painfully honest.
“She reminded me of someone.”
It was impossible to discuss Hannah without emotion threatening to overwhelm me and I stopped abruptly fighting the lump in my throat. Mrs. Fowlkes said nothing, waiting, expecting more.
I swallowed hard and continued “Someone who died a few years ago and who meant a great deal to me.”
“Mrs. Fowlkes,” Mrs. Wilson said softly, “I think Allie…Allison,” she corrected herself, “has a hard time talking about Hannah.”
“Hannah…Hannah…that name sounds familiar,” Mrs. Fowlkes’ brow furrowed in concentration “Wasn’t that the name of the nanny that your mother was always boasting about, the one that had trained you so well?”
“Yes,” I whispered, the lump in my throat growing bigger by the second.
“If your parents approved of her, how could you…”
Although she didn’t finish the sentence, I easily followed the path her mind was taking. How could I love someone of whom my parents whole-heartedly approved? Explaining that would be tricky; I would have to admit to manipulation and dishonesty which might turn Mrs. Fowlkes against me just as surely as if I had been a carbon copy of my mother. I realized, however, that I had to admit my deceptions, even if it cost me the chance to be friends with Mrs. Wilson.
“I’m not proud of what I did,” I began, “but if it meant keeping Hannah with me, I would do it again in a heartbeat,” I added a little defiantly.
I idly glanced down at my hands lying in my lap so calmly, so under control as I pondered how to attempt an explanation. I had been well trained, physically showing no signs of the agitation I was feeling. My mask was firmly back in place. About to risk rejection, I needed protection from the hurt that might follow.
“I realized at an early age that I had to be the perfect daughter. Everything I did was a direct reflection on Hannah, so if I messed up, I risked Hannah being dismissed,” I glanced at Elsee, pleading with her to understand. “Hannah was the only person in my life who cared about me. I realize it sounds selfish, but I needed her. I loved her. I may be nothing more than a ‘spoiled rich girl’, but I like to believe that Hannah is a part of me, the…the good part.”
My mask disintegrated a bit more, remembering Hannah and how much I’d loved her. Tears began to fall, and I didn’t even try to stop them.
“I admit to shamelessly manipulating and lying to my parents. I did everything I could to make Hannah look good and to convince my parents I needed her so she could stay with me. Hannah didn’t approve of a lot of the things that I did, but I know she understood. She loved me, too. I know she did. She was more of a mother to me than…than…”
I couldn’t even say it out loud. My mother! What a joke. She may have given birth to me, but she would never be my mother. That was just a title I used for lack of a better one.
I felt arms around me. I knew without looking that Mrs. Wilson had joined me on the settee. She handed me a lace handkerchief, and held me until the tears stopped flowing.
“I’m sorry,” I tried to smile, “I still find it difficult thinking about Hannah without…” I trailed off.
“How did Hannah die?” Mrs. Fowlkes asked.
“She was feeling tired and worn out all of the time so I convinced her to go see the doctor,” I closed my eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain as I remembered those appointments. “He ran some tests, and discovered she had ovarian cancer. She was in the later stages by the time she was diagnosed; there was nothing they could do.”
My voice was lifeless and I felt drained of all emotion.
“What happened then?” Mrs. Fowlkes asked shrewdly.
Past evasion, I silently decided that admitting to more lying and deception at that point could hardly make me look any worse than I already did.
“The doctor gave her four to six weeks at the most. Hannah wanted me to send her to a hospice facility, but I couldn’t…”
I just thought I’d been emptied of all emotion. My voice broke, and I had to collect myself before continuing.
“Mrs. White, my parents’ housekeeper who was also Hannah’s best friend, helped me hide Hannah’s condition from my parents. We both knew they would kick her out; they wouldn’t want a dying person in their house, and we weren’t going to let Hannah die alone. Mrs. White took care of her during the day while I was at school, and I took care of her the rest of the time. She had never been one to let anyone into her room, she liked her privacy, always keeping her own room clean, so the maids were no problem, and I always had an excuse ready for my parents in the unlikely event that they noticed her absence.”
Mrs. Wilson had tears in her eyes as she squeezed my shoulders. I took a deep breath, realizing I had to finish the story.
“When the pain became so severe that she couldn’t handle it with regular pain killers, Mrs. White convinced me to send her to a hospice facility. She needed stronger pain medicine, and she had to have an IV for that. I lied to my parents and told them I was staying with Nat, a girl I’d known since grade school, one of the few that my parents approved of since her father is one of my father’s partners.”
“Nat had no problem lying to our respective parents; she was a compulsive liar, which is why I picked her. She thought I was spending the night with a…with a boyfriend and I didn’t disillusion her. She was more than happy to help. My parents didn’t even bother to check my story.”
“Mrs. White and I alternated with some people at church staying with Hannah for almost a week, until she died. Thankfully, she was under heavy sedation and unconscious for the last few days. Mrs. White arranged the funeral since I had no idea what to do or who to call and Hannah didn’t have a
ny family that we knew of except us. We had a graveside service and I hadn’t expected so many people to show up,” I smiled at the memory, “but the people at church all loved Hannah. She was always helping someone.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat feeling drained. Mrs. Fowlkes rose, patted my knee, and left the room. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, but after a while I finally found the energy to sit up. Wiping my eyes, I watched Mrs. Wilson carefully, wondering what she was thinking. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“You’re very brave,” Mrs. Wilson said.
“No, I’m not,” I disagreed. “If I were brave, I would have stood up to my parents a long time ago, and left them as soon as I was 18. I’m not brave, I’m a coward who was willing to compromise the principles that Hannah tried so hard to instill in me just so I wouldn’t lose her. When I began high school I insisted that I needed a lady’s maid…a lady’s maid,” I repeated in disgust, “Just so they wouldn’t send her away. Then I made deals with my parents to pay for my college, my car, my apartment, even furnish me with an allowance. You might as well know now what kind of person I am. I’ll certainly understand if you don’t want to know me.”
Although it was hard to say, I knew I had to. I couldn’t look at her. I could scarcely breathe.
“My dear,” Mrs. Wilson reached down and took both of my cold hands in her warm ones. “I understand, and I do think you are very brave: brave and loving and fiercely loyal. I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“But how could you?” I asked bewildered. “I just admitted to lying and manipulation. How could you be anything but disgusted with me? I’m disgusted with me.”
“And that’s why I think you’re worth knowing,” Mrs. Wilson explained in a kind voice. “I agree that a lot of what you did was wrong, but like Hannah, I understand why you did it. None of us are allowed to choose our biological parents and you definitely got the short end of the stick in that regard, but I think you will learn from your mistakes because you realize they were mistakes and it will make you a better person in the long run.”
“I’m still taking their money to get through college and I have no intention of marrying Richard,” I said dully.
“Marrying Richard was not a part of the deal you made with your parents,” she pointed out calmly. “You’ve never told them you would marry him have you?”
“NO!” I replied forcefully and then had the grace to look sheepish. “I…implied and allowed them to draw their own conclusions.”
Mrs. Wilson smiled, “I personally believe that parents owe it to their children to provide a college education if they can afford it. I’m just glad that my son was able to secure a scholarship to help pay for his. He’s a very proud man and doesn’t like to take anything from me.”
“I wish I had his strength,” I said wistfully.
“You have a strength all your own,” Mrs. Wilson assured me. “More than anyone I have ever met you understand what it means to love. I don’t mean love the way most young women see it, the kind between a man and a woman—although when you find the right man to love it will be truly amazing and I hope I’m around to see it—I’m talking about other types like agape and philia love. Instead of becoming hardened and cynical you were willing to share some of your most painful memories with us and even risk Mrs. Fowlkes’ wrath to defend me, although I hope you understand her better now and realize I didn’t need defending, and I admire you for that.”
“Really…?” I asked in wonder jerking my head up to look into her eyes.
“Really,” she responded, smiling at me as she squeezed my hands.
It felt wonderful.