The Hired Girl(14)

But if I did strike — if I dared — I might be able to get him to give me the egg money. And maybe I could get permission to be friends with Miss Chandler. I wouldn’t ask her to the house, because Father frightened her. But perhaps I could visit her. If I had her to guide me, and I could borrow books, I could better myself.

I’d save money, just as Ma did. I’d add to that stash of bills inside Belinda’s apron. The time might come when I could take that money and use it to change my life. If I had books, if I could scrape together an education, I’d have a future, whether any man ever asked me to marry him or not.

But I’d have to strike first.

I think about going on strike, and how to go about it, and what Father will say. And there is hope, but I am cold with fear.



Sunday, June the twenty-fifth, 1911

Last night, the heat broke. I felt the change before dawn. I woke because my skin felt cool, and I wanted the sheet to cover me. It was a blessing. This morning, the sky was a clear, strong blue, and the air was fresh. Even Father allowed as he was glad of the change in the weather, though of course he went on to grumble about how we need rain. I believe Father thinks that if he ever approved of the weather, God would take a mean advantage of him and make it worse.

But the men went out to work in good spirits, and I took heart, because of the breeze coming in the window, and the billow and sway of the curtains. It occurred to me that the idea of the strike might be too brazen — at least, to start with. I thought it might be better to reason with Father and ask him politely for the egg money. I don’t think this was cowardice but only good sense. It seemed, on so fair a morning, that it wouldn’t hurt to ask nicely. I told myself that if he said no, I could go on strike later.

It struck me, too, that there would be no harm in trying to put Father in a good humor. So I decided to make a chicken pie for Sunday dinner. I don’t know that Father’s ever gone so far as to come out and say he likes chicken pie, but he scrapes the plate whenever I make one. And two of the old hens haven’t been laying. I hate wringing their necks, and the business of plucking their feathers is irksome. But I killed them and dressed them and into the pot they went. I steamed them and strained the broth and burned my fingers taking the meat off the bones. Then I stirred up a milk sauce, and rolled out the pastry, and added a little salt pork for flavor, because heaven knows those chickens need all the help they can get.

I fairly flew around the kitchen. I shelled peas and added bacon, because Father likes peas with bacon. I made light biscuits — Father prefers bread, but we have rye bread fresh from yesterday, and the boys and I like biscuits. I sliced the bread and put out butter and honey and cherry preserves and pickles. The whole time I was working, I was planning what I’d say to Father when I asked for the egg money. By the time the dinner was cooked, I’d lost my appetite, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine Father saying yes to me. Every time he said no — in my imagination, that is — he said it more cruelly. I was afraid that when the time came to ask, I wouldn’t dare.

But I did dare. By the time the men came in, the kitchen smelled like heaven. The crust on the pie couldn’t have been bettered. It was golden and flaky and tempting looking, and there were one or two places where the gravy oozed through and made rich-looking puddles on the crust. I saw the boys’ faces when they looked at it. Father didn’t say anything but sat right down to eat. He didn’t even take off his hat until he’d had a helping of pie.

I let them eat. As I said, I didn’t have much appetite, but I tasted the pie and worried down a biscuit with cherry preserves. It was a good dinner, and the men were silent as they ate. I didn’t speak. I was busy rehearsing what I was going to say. I knew it wouldn’t be wise to be too brash.

But I wasn’t going to be meeching, either. And I was going to ask today; I wasn’t going to put it off. I waited until almost all the food was gone. Then I sat up straight and used my most ladylike voice. I began, “Father —”

At first he didn’t look up. He was buttering the last slice of bread. Father always folds his bread in thirds and crushes it in his fist. Then he eats it like a stalk of celery, in great bites. I think I’d die if Miss Chandler ever saw the way he eats. When he took the second bite, he fixed his eyes on mine, and I felt a thrill pass through me, because it was now or never.

And all at once I wasn’t scared anymore. No, that’s not true; I was scared, but I wasn’t scared in the same way. Instead of being scared stiff, I was scared the way I used to feel when I was going downhill on a toboggan, too fast. It was a jittery, active, mettlesome kind of scared.