Chapter 20
When I wake up, I think I must be dead. I have died of a flu and shot up to heaven. Where else would have such soft-quality sheets?
I look around the room and cannot believe it’s mine.
Last night after I cleaned up my awful mess, Lucille told me to follow her upstairs.
When we got to the top, she opened the first door on the right and showed me to a white room with a bed big enough to sleep double people in it, with half a roof hanging over it that had silky pink tassels dangling down.
You and Tom must be very comfortable in here, I told her.
No, sugar, this room’s for you.
For me?
There was a rocking chair in the corner with a little pink footstool and up under a window was a built-in bench so you could sit and gaze out at a pretty green tree. Beside the bed was a pink-and-white rug I could tell just by looking at it would be butter to the toes.
Well? Does it meet your standards? Lucille asked.
Oh it definitely meets my standards.
There was also a dressing table with a looking glass hooked up to it like in our old house.
I jumped when I saw a skin-and-bones girl with all that white hair.
Was that really me? Was this her room? Lucille said again that she would be getting me some better clothes, that I couldn’t be running around the Heidelbergs dressed like a sack of flour.
Then she walked me across the hall where she showed me my very own indoor bathroom with a set of fluffy white towels for the wonderful bath I planned to take soon.
There was also a toothbrush in a stand. Is anybody going to be using that thing but me? I asked.
God no, she said. You can sleep in your petticoat tonight until I can get you a proper nightgown tomorrow.
Put your dress in that hamper so the maid can tend to it.
Then, like she was just thinking about it, she said, And if you see the maid in the morning, I don’t want you to say an-ee-thing about where you came from, alright?
Nothing about Oxford or the orphanage. Understood?
Yes ma’am … but why not?
I saw a little rise in her eyebrow. Because I asked you not to. Can we trust you on that, sugar?
Yes ma’am, you can trust me. I was just happy I could finally do something she asked me to.
Good, she said.
Before she left, I asked, ’Scuse me, but did you or your husband have anything in mind you would like me to call you by? It would feel strange to call this lady Mama since I called the other one that, but I could probably call the man Daddy. Lord knows I hadn’t worn that one out yet.
Just call us Tom and Lucille for now, she said and gave me a jerky pat on the arm and went back downstairs. While my tub was running, I took my own peek around.
Next to my room was another one with two narrow beds covered in blue, like for boys.
At the end of the hall was Tom and Lucille’s bedroom.
I could tell from all her clothes laying around everywhere.
Their color decor was a dark green paired with red, and the room was bigger than mine, but it was not better.
I find Christmas colors odd out of season.
There was one last room next to theirs that had a white crib already made up with pink blankets, a silver baby rattle, and one a those rotate-things over it.
Well, when I saw that, I told myself I would just have to work extra hard to show them I was better than any damn baby.
Surely I was quieter and while I might’ve thrown up once, I rarely wet the bed and I hardly ever shit my pants.
That is bound to be a plus in any type household.
Now, in my pretty pink-and-white room, the morning sun comes in.
I decide I will stay in here and not make a peep.
I do all right at this until the smell of food drifts in.
See now that is definitely bacon I am smelling.
I take my regular day dress out of the paper sack I brought with me.
It still smells like the Orphan. I did not realize I smelled like that, soggy and sweet.
I feel a thing press hot in my throat, but now is not the time when there is bacon frying in the house.
When I get down to the kitchen, sure enough, a colored lady in a white uniform has got a skillet sizzling.
She is a lot skinnier and younger than old Ophelia, but she is I guess what you call in the middle ages, and she is searching all the drawers, the cabinets, opening and shutting, squatting to see behind a printed curtain up under the sink.
When she spots me, she does not stop moving and says, Whose little girl a you? You one a Miz Rowena’s cousin?
I remember what Lucille said, so I tell her, No ma’am. I am just Meg.
She starts to wiping a counter. Meg. Meg who?
Nobody has told me this part, though. Am I still Meg Lefleur, or am I Meg Heidelberg now? Because I am not sure I know how to even spell that yet. So I tell her, I am just Meg. I’m staying here to help Tom and Lucille out. And I slice the air to show I prefer to leave it at that.
She finally stops moving. Help out? Her eyes go wider. You mean, with the baby? You look kinda young. Is the baby here now?
No ma’am, there is no baby here now. But if she has decided that is what I am here to do, well, that is her business. And even though I would like to ask her some questions myself about this whole place, Lucille told me to be trustworthy. Which I am pretty sure means keep my mouth shut.
She goes back to wiping and asks do I want me some breakfast.
Lord, yes. My supper last night was gone ten minutes after I ate it. And don’t worry, I will be sure and clean up good after.
She cracks a egg and fries it while I stand and watch. What I get out of her is her name is Willy May and she works at the big house for Mr. Tom’s mama, but that she comes over here mornings to look after things and to go on and siddown, baby, she got things to do.
I sit at the little table under a window.
When Willy May sets a plate of food in front of me, I remind myself not to act like a damn wild animal this time.
Lord, it is griddle cakes with syrup, a fried egg, last night’s ham cooked with coffee gravy, plus a real live orange cut in perfect-sized slices!
I would say good things like that do not grow on trees except in this case I know they do.
I shiver when I eat it. It is like tasting a slice of the sun.
I am finished and taking my plate to the sink when Tom walks in. Good morning, Willy May. His whole self, shirt, pants, even his brown hair, looks ironed today. Then he sees me and gets uncomfortable, his eyes moving from the maid to me, wondering, I guess, how I explained myself.
Good morning, Meg.
Good morning, sir.
Thank you, Willy May, you can go on back to the big house now, he says.
She looks around like there is more she wants to do, but she says, Yessuh. I be back tomorrow.
Lucille comes in, but she is not looking near as tidy as he is. She’s wearing a flowery bathrobe, and that big red curl is sticking out funny to the side now. The black stuff she had drawed on is smeared up under her eyes. She tells me good morning, but it looks like a chore.
Her eyes follow Willy May going through the yard. Could you at least wait for her to pour me a cup of coffee before you shoo her off, Tom?
I’ll serve your coffee, darling, Tom says. It’s right here on the stove.
But I don’t want you to serve my coffee, she says, sitting at the table. I want her to serve my coffee. It tastes better when the maid pours it.
He serves her the coffee.
And dammit, Willy May has finished all the damn dishes. These people are going to think I am useless around here.
Well. What should we do today? Tom asks.
I need to run to the store and pick up a few things. And try and find Meg some decent clothes, Lucille says.
I’ll drive you, Tom says. Well you better believe I watch them close. I know what can happen when a person runs to the store.
Thank you but I don’t need a chaperone, dear, she says and gets up and walks out with her coffee cup.
Tom opens the back door and looks out at the yard. I would like to explore back there myself. That magnolia tree looks worth climbing. He whistles through his teeth as a good breeze comes in. You feel that, Meg?
Yes sir. The air is nice and cool. That is unusual for August.
What do you say we pick out a book for you and we go enjoy this fine weather?
I say yes to that.
Look down on that shelf, Tom says. There should be something suitable for you.
I thought having my own indoor toilet was something, but these folks got themselves a real live library in their own house.
The walls are the color of a dark stormy night, and there is a red velvety settee and a large painting of a sad old man that Tom says was his maternal grandfather.
The old man does not look like his maternal mother was very nice to him.
And books? They got them built to sit right in the wall.
Running side to side and up and down are books about history, books about birds, books about Mississippi, even books about books.
Tom steers me by the shoulders to the bottom shelf where they keep the storybooks, which is the exact kind of book I like to read.
Even though I would not say no to a picture now and then, I do not need them to understand the story.
I treat my selection serious since I’m not sure how many you are allowed to take out here.
They got a Anne of Green Gables and a Story of Doctor Dolittle that tempt me, but I settle on Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
The other mama used to read me one of his.
That Mark Twain is reliable. Plus all the raft business they wrote about on the back cover reminds me of old Ophelia and her piano.
When Tom sees what I have chose, he nods and says, I prefer that one over Tom Sawyer, myself.