The Hired Girl(16)

I kept my eye on him. All of us watched Father, waiting to see which way he’d jump. As it happened, he lashed out at Luke — and I was glad it wasn’t me.

“A man’s wages,” he said, and pitched forward so that he was face-to-face with Luke — face-to-face, and too close. I didn’t blame Luke for shrinking back. “You think you do a man’s work? You think I’d hire you, if I had my druthers? Lazy and feckless as you are? If you weren’t my son, I wouldn’t let you set foot on my land. I wouldn’t give you a boy’s wages, much less a man’s. You can count yourself lucky I don’t give you something else — something fit for the boy you are.”

Father got up fast, and his chair scraped the floor. I thought he might strike Luke — I thought he might overturn the table; he did once, when Ma was alive. I don’t recollect why, but I remember cleaning up the spilled food and broken crockery. But he only stood there with his fists clenched, glaring at Luke.

I stole a glance at my unfavorite brother, and felt his humiliation. Luke’s skin is like mine, prone to burn and freckle and blush, and he was as red as a piece of calf ’s liver. Just at that moment, my heart ached for him.

But I didn’t stir. We all sat still, waiting to see what Father would do next. He turned his eyes on Matthew and Mark. “You’re not as useless as he is,” he said, ”but I’ve no notion of paying you. Haven’t I fed and clothed you for twenty years? Ain’t I entitled to a little work in exchange — and a little respect?” He bellowed the last word so that I started. He swung round on me.

“You’d better jump,” he snarled. “You’d better jump, and you’d better cower, if you’re going to come pestering me for that egg money. Your ma had the egg money, that’s right. I let her have the egg money. But I didn’t feed and clothe your ma for fourteen years. I didn’t have to eat her burned food, before she learned how to cook a decent meal, and I didn’t have to put up with airs and graces and sass. Your ma was twenty-six years old when she married me, and she knew better than to sass me.” He gave a short laugh; suddenly he was enjoying himself. “When you’re twenty-six, you can ask me for the egg money. I don’t promise to give it to you, because you ain’t worth it now, and likely you won’t be worth it then. But you can ask.”

He picked up his hat from the table and set it on his head. He’d won, and he knew it. He swung the door wide when he went outdoors, so that it flew back and slammed.

The boys got up and followed him. Not right away, and not all together, but they slid back their chairs and went after him. They knew they had to work with him all afternoon, and they didn’t want to make things worse by lagging behind.

I thought they were like a flock of sheep. They didn’t like him any more than I did — I know Luke hated him, at that moment — but where Father led, they followed. Not one of them glanced at me as they passed by. Not even Mark.

I sat at the table with the empty plates. Then I got up and put the kettle to boil, so I could wash the dishes.

I read these words, and I think of how hopeful I was when the day began — and how lacking in hope I am now. It seems to me I have two choices: to accept the way things are, or to strike.

I don’t know where on earth I’ll find the courage.

But I have to do something. It’s like that passage in Jane Eyre: Speak I must; I had been trodden on severely and must turn: but how? Somehow I must find the courage to do more than speak — I must defy Father: I must act.



Tuesday, June the twenty-seventh, 1911

I have begun my strike! I write this in the apple orchard — Father can’t see me from the window. It’s evening, and the air is beginning to cool. The western sky is resplendent, painted with brushstrokes of harmonious color. And I am triumphant: I have begun, I have begun! I am a little frightened, but so far, it’s gone well. Oh, I scarcely dare hope —!

All day yesterday I thought long and hard about my strike, and I think Miss Chandler would say that I’ve shown great maturity and good judgment. When I thought about my work, I realized something: even if I weren’t a coward about Father (and I’m not as cowardly as I thought I was!), I wouldn’t choose to go on the sort of strike where I do nothing at all. For example, the raspberries: they’re ripe now, and if I were on a full strike, I’d let them go to waste. But I know that next winter I’ll be craving raspberry jam, the tartness and sweetness and that ruby-red color. And so will the boys — Mark loves raspberry jam. It’s his favorite.