The Hired Girl(6)

One thing about Belinda is a secret. Under the ruffles, her apron is stiff. It’s stiff because Ma sewed money inside the hem — dollar bills. I don’t know how many; from the stiffness, it might be ten or even fifteen. The summer before she died, Ma told me she was going to stitch the money inside Belinda’s apron, and that money was just for me, for a time when I really needed it. “Not for toys,” she whispered, and I remember how hot and sharp her whisper felt against my ear. “Not for toys or clothes or candy or pretty things. That money’s for something important. If I’m ever not here to help you, remember that money’s there for you, right in Belinda’s apron.”

I was nine years old, and scared. I didn’t like her talking about a time when she wouldn’t be around to help me. I suppose I knew even then that Ma wasn’t strong. She was too delicate to be a farmer’s wife. She had terrible headaches, and sometimes she’d stop working because she couldn’t get her breath. Even at nine, I was stronger than she was. Sometimes at the end of a day, she’d say, “I’ve worked you too hard,” but then she would smile and touch my cheek and say, “but never mind, you’re a strong girl and a good girl and a great help to me. That’s the thing you’ve got to remember.” And I did remember it, after she died.

I wish I looked like Ma. She always said she wasn’t pretty, but she was small and thin and quick in her movements — like Jane Eyre, maybe. I’d like to look in the mirror and see Ma’s face instead of my own. But the only thing I inherited from Ma was her blue eyes. For the rest of it, I look like Father, with a face as wide as a shovel, and broad shoulders and a big mouth. It’s not such a bad look for the men — Luke is even handsome — but it’s wrong for a girl. I’d rather look like Ma, more delicate and refined. But oh! just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — all swollen and purple and goblin-ish! — and I’d give just about anything to look like myself again.



Monday, June the nineteenth, 1911

Today was washday. It was dreadfully hot, and I thanked God when I finished with the boiling water and moved on to the rinsing stage. I was wringing out Father’s trousers when I saw someone coming up the hill. It was a lady in a dove-gray suit and a leghorn hat. I raised my hand to shade my eyes, to make sure it wasn’t a mirage of some kind. But it was dear Miss Chandler, and there could be no doubt that she was coming to see me.

I dropped Father’s trousers and raced down the hill to meet her. Joy gave my feet wings; I felt like the Roman god Mercury. The only thing was, I forgot about my face. My bruised toes were all right, but my face hurt something awful when I lit off like that. Never mind: I clamped one hand over my stitches and bounded like a deer. In an instant I was at her side. “Miss Chandler!” I panted, and I would have clasped her hands, except they were full. “Miss Chandler!”

She gazed at me searchingly. She was out of breath from climbing the hill, and her cheeks were pink. She was carrying a big armful of snowball blossoms, wrapped in wet newspaper, and the satchel she brings to school. The idea flashed through my head — it was bright and quick, like a shooting star — that she might have books for me in her satchel. Then I felt a pang of shame because it was miracle enough that Miss Chandler had come to visit me. I shouldn’t have thought beyond that.

“Dear Joan,” said Miss Chandler, “are you quite well?”

I’d forgotten how awful I look. The bruises have changed color since Wednesday. They aren’t bright purple and shiny anymore; they’re a sort of thunder color. The swelling on my forehead makes a puffed-up ridge that looks like a third eyebrow. When Miss Chandler gazed into my face, she winced, and I remembered how frightful I look. Of course, I would be wearing my oldest dress — a loose Mother Hubbard that used to be blue; it’s a nasty shade of yellow-gray now — and my feet were bare. I looked awful and I knew it, but it’s been so hot all week. And who puts on a good dress to do the laundry?

“I had an accident,” I began, and together we turned to climb the hill. I made my steps short to match hers. I walked backward in front of her, so I could feast my eyes on her face.

It’s a curious thing, but I always remember Miss Chandler as being taller than she is. She’s really a little woman, but I think of her as being bigger than me, so when I see her, it’s a surprise. She’s beautiful, though, for an older lady. Even though she was warm and out of breath, she looked perfectly lovely. Her snow-white hair was done up just right, and her suit fit so elegant. Ma used to say that if I became a schoolteacher one day, I’d have pretty clothes. They have suits for girls my age — Peter Thompson suits, they’re called — but I’ve never had one. Hazel Fry has two: a dark-blue one for everyday and a pale-blue linen for good.