At first, I thought Garland might have just decided to write a letter hoping I would see him again. Maybe he had written it immediately after the Wexler gala, even on his way home. That was an exciting thought, but when I opened the envelope, I saw this was not a letter full of compliments and eagerness for us to meet again soon. It was so disappointingly short and curt I almost crumpled it up and threw it away. I wanted to have something I could read repeatedly, perhaps memorize, or at least receive something from him that was filled with flowery, emotional comments suggesting his hope for a longer relationship. I even was considering letting Daisy read it.
I had received notes from boys who had crushes on me, but this was really going to be my first love letter. At least, that was what I had dreamed I would receive.
Instead, his first letter was scratched quickly on the back of some billing form, looking like it was done as an afterthought. Why would I ever show this to Daisy or press this into my book of memories?
Dear Miss Dixon,
Do let me know your arrival date whenever it is determined. Maybe I’ll continue teaching you the waltz.
Garland Foxworth
That was it? No description of what he would propose we do in Charlottesville? No reference to the walk we took at the Wexler gala, the stars, or our kiss? Just a tongue-in-cheek comment about our dancing? Was it all so matter-of-fact to him? How many women was he courting at the moment? How many did he hold in his arms and kiss since we had met? Was there someone he thought prettier, perhaps? Why bother writing back to him? Was I making a total fool of myself?
I fumed, sulked, and then, days later when my aunt’s reply arrived inviting me as I had expected she would, I broke down any resistance quickly and wrote to him but made sure to sound far less formal than he had sounded.
Dear Garland,
My great-aunt has invited me to her home anytime, so I will move up my plans and prepare a visit in two days. I intend to stay in Charlottesville for a week, perhaps a day or two more. I am including my great-aunt’s address in this letter. It’s only two houses east of the People’s Bank on the corner of Court and Market. I do look forward to seeing you again. You made the Wexler gala quite enjoyable for me.
When I arrive at my great-aunt’s home, I shall tell her about our meeting each other at the event and your investment in my father’s bank, so she will know you are no stranger. I am bringing the dress I wore to show her.
Perhaps you can send a note to her address to let me know when you might appear on the doorstep.
Warm regards,
Corrine
Once again, I debated scenting the letter. This time I decided to do so. When I gave it to my father, he looked like he detected the sweet aroma even before it was in his hands. Had I overdone it? There was that little smile on his lips and an impish glint in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ll get your train ticket,” he told me.
It would be the first time I would be on a train by myself, sitting in a passenger car with strangers. I had never thought of it as a joyful experience. There was soot and noise, and the seats weren’t all that comfortable. Every time we were on a train, my mother would force me to stay seated, and I often got off nauseated.
Nevertheless, I was having so much trouble containing my excitement during the next two days that I thought it best to avoid my mother as much as possible, and whenever I did confront her and my mother asked about or mentioned my visiting Great-aunt Nettie, I tried to avoid looking at her or making any part of it sound interesting.
“I’m sure I’ll be bored in two days and come home,” I muttered.
It was clear my father had still not mentioned Garland Foxworth, and for some reason, my mother, who was usually suspicious about anything I did or wanted to do, didn’t make the connections or ask pointed questions. Instead, she talked about my great-aunt and Hazel, warning me I would be shocked at how they lived now, cooped up and dependent on so many others. She assured me I would come away thankful for the privileged life I had.
“Sometimes we have to lose something, even for a short while, to know how important it was. Now that I think on it more, I realize this trip is a good idea. Maybe you’ll take less for granted.”
Oh, how I hated her lectures. However, she still didn’t even hint about Garland. Perhaps, I thought, she didn’t know how close to Charlottesville was the Foxworth home, and of course, she had not seen enough of me and Garland at the gala to realize there might even be a chance of a real romance.
I occupied most of my two days of waiting with choosing what I would take to wear. I should have been smart enough to get my father to buy me more clothes that day we went for my evening gown. Why didn’t I envision what would follow? You can’t be a young lady one night and a child the day after, but I feared that was how I would seem. All my clothes looked juvenile and inadequate when it came to highlighting my maturity. And I hated every pair of shoes I owned. I actually coveted some of my mother’s clothes despite how uninteresting they were. At least I wouldn’t look so young, I thought, and wished we were the same size.
The morning I left with my father to go to the train station, my mother had not yet risen. We practically tiptoed out of the house.
“This is, in fact, your first trip alone, Corrine,” my father began before I boarded the train. “I hope you will enjoy yourself but also maintain decorum, mind what you’re told, and give your great-aunt Nettie only a pleasant experience.”
“Of course I will, Daddy,” I said.
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Be careful, Corrine. A man in his mid-twenties is not a boy.”
“I know that, Daddy.” I wanted to add that was the point, but I didn’t.
“I’d like you to send me a telegram in two days and tell me how things are. Send it to my bank.”
“I will, Daddy.”
I kissed him good-bye and took my seat by the window, holding my breath almost until the very moment the train started away. The train jerked so hard that a little girl fell off her mother’s lap. The sound of the steam engine pumping was drowned out by the sound of my own heart thumping in my ears. I paid no attention to anyone else on the train once we were on our way, even though I felt the eyes of every man drifting toward me. I was sure they wanted to start a conversation, but I avoided all smiles and eye contact. All I did was think about Garland Foxworth. There hadn’t been enough time for him to respond to my second letter, and that little voice inside me that always challenged my dreams and hopes began to ask the dreaded questions.
What if he was only toying with you? What if he never responds? Are you going to sit by your great-aunt’s front windows all day waiting for his appearance? Will you feel like a fool? How long will you wait to be disappointed?
Shut up, shut up, shut up! I screamed inside myself. I imagined that those on the train who continued to look at me thought I was a little touched in the head, because I was pounding my knees and muttering under my breath occasionally, not the typical behavior of one as young as I was. Eventually, I calmed myself and sat back with my eyes closed.
I dreamed that somehow he would have learned about the train’s arrival and would be there waiting for me, his hand clutching a bouquet of beautiful flowers or a box of chocolates. He’d be sharply dressed, maybe wearing a top hat, and he’d have a fancy carriage with a driver waiting to take me to Great-aunt Nettie’s house. When we were pulling into the station, I opened my eyes to search for him, but he wasn’t there, and I had to get a taxi carriage.
The city of Charlottesville was busier and more crowded than I remembered. There were people everywhere I looked. Seeing so many strangers, most looking through me or past me, made me feel small and lost. What a fool I’m making of myself, I thought. I didn’t know another soul here. What was I going to do with myself staying with two elderly women? How long could I wait, and wouldn’t I look foolish if days and days went by and he ignored me? I would not send another message. That I vowed.
Great-aunt Nettie Lloyd lived in a black-and-white two-story Georgian Colonial. I had been there twice before with my parents and always found it bland and dull, colors fading, siding cracking and chipping, and the porch floor quite worn. When I was younger, I saw that Hazel usually did a good job of keeping the house clean and tidy, but my mother recently told me that as Hazel aged alongside my great-aunt, her work became erratic and slow. Her eyesight was failing. Little care was given to the areas not used very much, which, unfortunately for me, I would discover included the one guest bedroom.
When I arrived, both of them were at the doorway to greet me. My great-aunt looked like she had shrunk. She was never heavy, but at five foot five or so, she had always looked robust, her gray hair pulled up into a tight bun. I remembered her as someone who took great pains to look as perfectly put together as possible. Not a strand of hair was out of place. Her dresses had narrow skirts with only slight padding at the rear. The gathered material had perfect pleats, but above everything, her clothes looked well cared for, immaculately clean.
I was surprised to see how disheveled she was now, her hair bun falling apart on both sides. There were little hairs growing on her chin. Couldn’t she or Hazel see them and pluck them? Her socks were slipping over her reddened ankles, and her shoes looked scuffed. The dress she wore was stained and should have been taken in at the bodice and waist. Her hands were almost all bone, too. How could she step out of her house looking like this? I would never let this happen to me, I thought, no matter how old I was.
Hazel, wider in the hips than I recalled, was nevertheless dressed better than my great-aunt. She wore a dark-green Basque bodice with a high-standing collar and much nicer shoes, too. Her face was round and full, with barely a wrinkle. She also had what looked like a red ruby pinkie ring and a bracelet of small pearls. In contrast, my aunt had no jewelry on, not even a marriage ring, which had probably become too big for her thinning, bony finger. If it weren’t for Hazel being African, one might wonder who was the owner of the home and who was the servant. Hazel’s hair, although peppered throughout with gray, was still curly black, and those black-opal eyes were bright and cheery. Thank heaven for that, I thought.
“A real lady she is,” Hazel said, gazing out at me.
“What?” my great-aunt asked, leaning toward me to see me.
Hazel repeated what she had said but a lot louder. In fact, I thought she was shouting, and I looked behind me to see if anyone walking by had stopped, wondering what was happening.
“Oh,” my great-aunt said, nodding, but there was a look in her eyes that told me she had no idea who I was. If she did remember I was coming, I think she was expecting to greet a much younger version of me.
“Hello, Aunt Nettie,” I said, making sure to say it louder than I normally would. “Hello, Hazel.”
“Rosemary?” Great-aunt Nettie said. I looked at Hazel, who rolled her eyes and smiled at me.
“No, I’m Corrine, Aunt Nettie.”
“Oh?”
I saw she was struggling with my name. Who was this Corrine?
“I’m Rosemary’s daughter, Aunt Nettie. I’ve been here before with my parents years ago. I think I was eight or nine. I’m the one who wrote to you recently.”
“What she say?” Great-aunt Nettie asked Hazel.
Hazel leaned forward a little. “I read your letter to her, and then I wrote you back for her,” she said. “She forgets more’n she knew these days. Come on in, darlin’.”
She reached for my suitcase. I held my large handbag, a silk metallic my mother had let me borrow. She didn’t use it much.
“I don’t remember all that much myself,” Hazel continued. “They say you forget what you want to first, and the rest just trails behind it like a herd of sheep crying to be remembered.”
Herd of sheep? My great-aunt was practically deaf and blind. What was I stepping into?
I followed her through the short entryway, Great-aunt Nettie trailing behind me as though she was the visitor and needed to be the one told what was where. The living room was on the right. The only way to approach the kitchen was through it. The small dining room was on the other side. There was a short stairway that led up to the three bedrooms.
It wasn’t simply the worn floors, rugs, and furniture that immediately depressed me; it was the redolent odor of age and dampness. The house was slowly dying alongside its inhabitants. I had forgotten how small it was as well. My mother was so right. She knew what I would confront, and now I understood why she was so amiable about my going. She wanted me to be put off, depressed, and unhappy. She believed that disappointment and unhappiness were the best teachers. I had no idea how bad it was and what I would be confronting, despite her warnings. In its day, this house had probably been quite nice and impressive, but now . . . I’d never even step into it if it weren’t my great-aunt’s home.
“Don’t look around too closely,” my mother had warned me with a smile, trying to puncture any balloon full of excitement I might have floating in my dreams. “Not that you would, being oblivious to anything that displeases you.”
Oh, how self-satisfied she surely was, gabbing about it today with her friends. “She’ll come rushing home as soon as she is able to,” she most likely was telling them. And they were nodding like pigeons.
When I paused and studied the living room, Hazel saw where my eyes were going. There were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and what I feared might be evidence of mice in the far corner of the living room. An attempt had been made to cover the worn areas of the small sofa with pieces of lace and cotton. I saw a pair of slippers just under a chair and what looked like a pile of yellowed old newspapers on the small table in front of the sofa. The faded light-blue curtains were partially open, and the windows looked like they hadn’t been washed for decades. The house did face what had become a far busier street than I remembered, so maybe neither of them cared much about looking out at the scenery.
“It’s a mess, I know. With all that traffic outside, the horses and carriages, the dust seeps in everywhere. But pay it no mind. We’ll get you settled in, darlin’,” Hazel said, “and then, after you rest a bit, we’ll have tea.”
I remembered that tea meant dinner for Hazel.
She turned to Great-aunt Nettie. “Then Corrine will tell us all about the family back in Alexandria,” she added much louder for Great-aunt Nettie. “Won’t that be nice, Nettie? You remember Alexandria, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” Great-aunt Nettie said. “I had a sister who lived there. I think she died,” she added. Her uncertainty about the death of her own sister, my grandmother, and the casual way she said it was quite surprising. I looked at Hazel.
“We forget what we don’t want to remember first,” she repeated. “Here, let’s go up to the guest room. I put our best comforter on the bed, and I’m sure you want to unpack your things.”
“Thank you, Hazel.”
I won’t last here two days if Garland doesn’t appear, I thought as I followed Hazel up the rickety steps. The thick walnut balustrade rocked a little, advising me not to put my weight on it. I looked back at Great-aunt Nettie, who stood watching us as if she had already forgotten who I was and why I was going up her stairway.
Thankfully, Hazel had opened the window in the guest room, so there was at least some fresh air to chase away the odor of a room long shut up and unused, but there was all that dust swirling around just outside. The bed was half the size of mine, and the old wood floor was bare, with not even a rug to step down on in the morning.
“You remember that there’s only the loo downstairs,” Hazel said.
“Loo? Oh, bathroom. Right.”
“You can’t depend on the hot water for the bath all the time,” Hazel warned. “Best to take yours in the mornin’. The piping is a bit old now. We’ve had some troubles with the burner. A good handyman named George Thomas helps out from time to time.”
“Oh,” I said. “I was hoping for a soak before tea. Travel a
nd all. When you get off the train, you feel like you’ve been riding through a chimney.”
I was really thinking, dreaming maybe, that Garland would show up, and I wanted to look the best I could after my journey.
“Well, you can try it. I can put up a few kettles in case,” she said. “The drawers in that old armoire stick a bit now and then. Just give ’em a good tug. They haven’t been opened for years.”
She smiled.
“Don’t worry about breakin’ anything, darlin’. Most everythin’s broke one way or another in this tired old house, includin’ us. Best to think of a visit like this as a travel experience. Like going to Africa or somethin’.”
She laughed. When she smiled, I saw how many of her back teeth were gone.
I thought again of my mother back home, laughing to herself. She and my father had been here not much more than a year ago, but just to pass through. My father had mentioned nothing negative. I wondered if he thought that warning me would seem like he was discouraging me from having anything to do with Garland Foxworth. From time to time, even he would admit that the way to get me to do something was to tell me not to do it, and vice versa.
“I got quite a nice ham cooked and made some of my bread. There’s collards I made with crispy bacon, sautéed onion, ham, and garlic. You probably don’t remember my collards. Oh, and we have some very nice potatoes, too. And then later, we’ll visit in the parlor and have some of my golden rod cake. Your great-aunt is quite fond of it, but I only make it for a special occasion.”
“Thank you, Hazel.”
“Sure, missy. You go on and unpack your things, and I’ll put up some hot water in case.” She squeezed my hand gently. “It’s so nice of you to think of us old folks. Most young folks don’t,” she said, and left me.
I stood there for a moment wondering if I would laugh or cry about what I had gotten myself into. When I opened the top drawer of the dresser, I jumped back. Even though they were harmless, two spiders harvesting ants and moths in their webs shocked me. I decided I would leave all my things in my bag. Gingerly, I peeled back the comforter and top sheet to see what might be living in the bed. There was nothing there now, but who knew what might be crawling in with me later?
Beneath the Attic Page 7