The Hired Girl(40)

Mrs. Rosenbach told me that from now on, she wants me to answer the front door. That’s to spare Malka’s legs. Mrs. Rosenbach says the steps that go from the kitchen to the first floor are awfully steep, and last winter Malka was rushing to answer the doorbell and fell. Luckily she fell up the stairs, not down them, but Mrs. Rosenbach worries. That’s why she comes downstairs to discuss meals. It just goes to show how fine Mrs. Rosenbach is, because in the normal course of things, a servant should come upstairs when her mistress summons her. But Mrs. Rosenbach puts her respect for age and infirmity above her status.

She suggested that I should take on some of the cooking on Saturdays. I will be a Shabbos goy, which is a Christian who does the work that Jews aren’t supposed to do on Shabbos.

Then Mrs. Rosenbach indicated a cardboard box on the sofa. It had an emblem on it — two wavy lines like a stream, and a prancing horse, and the words ROSENBACH’S DEPARTMENT STORE in beautiful copperplate. She said that it was customary for servants to pay for their own uniforms, but that seemed unduly harsh “in view of the fact that I had to leave home precipitously.” For a moment I didn’t understand, but then I saw she meant that I’d had to run away from home because Father was beating me, except that he wasn’t. She went on to say that as I would be greeting her guests, she wanted me to be more formally attired.

Now, that shows how refined she is, because look at the things she didn’t say! She didn’t mention the fact that I’ve been wearing the same ugly dress for more than a week, or hint that I’m not presentable enough for her friends. And she didn’t insinuate that I was too poor to buy my own uniforms. Now that I think it over, I feel a little guilty, because I’m not as penniless as she thinks. I have my Belinda money. But while she was talking to me, so gravely and politely, I honestly forgot about the Belinda money. I felt penniless.

All that time, I was aching to see what my new uniforms would look like. At last Mrs. Rosenbach waved her hand in a way that gave me permission to open the box, and she added that she had taken the liberty of putting in a packet of long hairpins, because long pins are more effective with thick hair. I guess she’s noticed that my hair keeps tumbling down.

I thanked her and opened the box. Tissue paper, thin as rose petals, and two uniforms — well, really they are housedresses, but they are so pretty! They’re cotton but they feel satin-smooth and fresh and crisp; they’re better quality cotton than any I’ve ever worn. And they smell so new — that clean cotton smell, which is almost like milk. Both dresses are blue, because blue is economical and doesn’t fade quickly. One dress is a cool-morning-sky blue with a pattern of white ferns on it. The other is closer to a robin’s-egg blue, with tiny sprays of buttercups and pink rosebuds. Both uniforms have white Dutch collars and cuffs that unbutton, so the sleeves roll up.

Then there were two darling white aprons, with ruffles over the shoulders, so starchy and pure looking, and two funny, frilly little caps — Mrs. Rosenbach gambled on the fact that I wouldn’t be too proud to wear them. Underneath the dress aprons was a big canvas apron, dark gray, which will be good for scrubbing. And the little packet of hairpins, none of them rusted.

I could scarcely contain my excitement, seeing those dresses. I kept holding them up and exclaiming and pointing out each detail to Mrs. Rosenbach. I guess it was too much, because her mouth turned down at the corners the way Ma’s did when I was a little thing and carried on about something or other. It was a tenderhearted look, but more superior in Mrs. Rosenbach’s case. She said I’d need a black uniform for formal wear, but she’d provide that, too. She added that she was sure I’d want to shop for other things, and she hoped I would consider buying them at Rosenbach’s Department Store.

That reminded her to tell me that her husband is coming home on Thursday, which I already knew, because Malka told me. Malka worships the ground Mr. Rosenbach walks on. His first name is Moritz, and Malka likes to call him her little Moritz. I hope he won’t be a domestic tyrant like Father. I don’t think anybody ever called Father little Josiah. Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with him.

When Mrs. Rosenbach was explaining how to get to Rosenbach’s Department Store — I haven’t taken a streetcar yet, and I can’t wait — my tongue got the better of me and I blurted out a question. I asked her if there were books in Rosenbach’s Department Store.

Mrs. Rosenbach said curtly, “You must not interrupt me, Janet.” I felt ever so sorry — interrupting when she’d been so kind — and I said so all in a rush. I explained that I was just starving for something to read. Then I realized I’d interrupted her twice in a row. I clapped my hands over my mouth.