The Hired Girl(18)

“I’m making jam,” I said briskly, and skimmed raspberry froth off the top. “Your dinner’s on the kitchen stool under the elm tree. There’s beer and sandwiches and cookies.” And then — I don’t know how I found the courage — I went on. “I don’t see my way to making a hot dinner every day in this heat. I’m on strike.”

I couldn’t see Father’s face very well. He stood with the light behind him, and I could see that Mark and Luke were with him. There was a brief pause before Father took the Lord’s name in vain. Then he said the thing he’s always saying, about how a working man has a right to a hot meal. And then he demanded to know what in heaven’s name — only it wasn’t heaven he said — I meant by being on strike.

“I don’t have any money,” I said over my shoulder. The jam was bubbling up high, so I wrapped towels around my hands and took the kettle off the heat for a minute. “I’m bound and determined to do what has to be done in this house, but I want a little money. So I won’t be doing anything that doesn’t have to be done. I’m not going to iron. I’ve made up my mind about that. And until I get a little money, you and the boys’ll have to make your own beds. And I don’t see why dinner has to be hot, not when it’s ninety in the shade, and I have to make jam.” I set the jam kettle on the table and fetched a saucer. I spooned a little jam onto the saucer and lifted the saucer to see if the jam would run or stay put.

It was still runny, so I put the kettle back on the stove. I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred.

Father took the name of the Lord in vain again. This time he added a middle initial, which was H. I’ve always wondered if the H stood for Holy. I braced myself, because I didn’t know what he might do next — he might shake me, or even slap me.

But he didn’t. For one thing, Mark had hold of his arm. And for another — but it was only later that I remembered this — Father’s wary of being in the kitchen when I’m putting food by. I remember the first year I canned tomatoes, the jars exploded, one after another, and Father almost lost an eye. The funny thing is, the jars never explode when I make jam — I don’t know why. It’s the tomatoes that are temperamental.

But Father doesn’t know that. He gave an unpleasant grunt and turned away. I was busy with the jam, but I knew at once when he went out, and I felt a great rush of relief. When I peeked out the window a little later, Father was sitting under the elm tree with a ham sandwich in his fist. The way he was eating, I could tell I hadn’t spoiled his appetite.

I felt limp — and astonished — and triumphant. Oh, I hadn’t gotten the egg money yet — but I’d stood up to Father, and he hadn’t come after me. I felt so baffled-happy, I could scarcely keep my mind on the jam. All at once, the smell of it seemed as intoxicating as wine — some rare, racy, aromatic wine, like French champagne, though I’ve never tasted that. I’ve only heard about it. But I was drunk with relief and triumph and the smell of raspberries, and I reckon that’s as good as champagne any day.

I was proud of myself, and the jam turned out beautifully.

I had time to iron my things and wash up before supper. I made an especially good supper — no point in riling up Father twice in one day — pork chops with gravy, and boiled greens and hominy cakes, and dried-apple dumplings with cream. I was especially cheerful as I served it, and I said no more about the strike. Father didn’t speak to me. I think he doesn’t know what to do, so he’s pretending I’m not on strike at all.

After I finished the dishes, I said, “It’s such a lovely night. I think I’ll take the mending outdoors.” And I took up my workbasket, but I’d hidden a pencil and this book inside. And I haven’t been sewing, but writing. So there!



Later that evening

I think I will never stop crying.

Father has burned my books.



Wednesday, June the twenty-eighth, 1911

I’ve locked myself in my room. The door has no lock, but I’ve wedged a straight chair under the knob. I don’t even know why I did it — the men are outside harrowing — except that I need to be in a room where Father can’t come.

I’ve been crying all day. Sometimes I stop for a little. Then I think about what happened last night, and I start up again. It feels like I’ve rubbed off my eyelashes, I’ve cried so hard. My face hurts, and my mouth is as dry as cornstarch. I’m queasy and thirsty and wretched.