A Lady of Quality

By

Warren Bull

 Listen here. I grew from a child to a young woman in the time between the murder of Emmett Till for whistling at a white woman and the murder of Medgar Evers for advocating equal rights for us.  Just so you know, that was from the middle 1950s to the middle 1960s. Of course, there were other murders in Mississippi during that time.  Reverend George Lee and World War II veteran Vernon Dahmer were slain for their ungodly, un-American belief that, finally having the right to vote, we should actually register and vote.

I remember being confused and scared, which was, I suppose, what the white people in power wanted us to feel.  I was too young to vote. I was just trying to earn my keep in Martinville when I heard that Mrs. Wallace Morton Edwards IV was looking for a part-time maid.  Her housekeeper, Eppie May Washington, was getting on in years. She needed help with the heavy cleaning and serving meals when Dr. and Mrs. Edwards had company.  More than a few women had been hired, but Mrs. Edwards did not keep any of them for long.

        I was strong.  I’d chopped cotton and worked in the fields, trading my sweat for small wages.  Every once in a while, northern tourists would pull their cars over to the side of the road and take pictures of us, like we were animals in the zoo. Although I was proud of being able to do as much work as any man, the ache in my back, shoulders and arms reminded me that stoop labor would eventually leave me with crippling pain.  I didn’t know then what another kind of work would cost me.

In the years before doing field work, I’d hauled water, cooked, cleaned and looked after the children for Ray and Eva Hooper who boarded me.  You see, my parents died when I was two and my sister was an arm baby. A kind man, William Dupree, who was not kin, took us in.  He and his wife cared for us until I was ten and my sister was eight.  Then he passed. On his deathbed, he made Mrs. Dupree promise to keep us together.  Let me tell you, she didn’t. She farmed us out before his body got cold.  I went to serve one family, and my sister served another.  Neither side of my family and none of the good members of the church objected or offered to keep us.  I did well in the rickety, dusty school where coloreds could go, but nobody noticed except my teachers.  Nobody noticed anything I did.   They only noticed when my chores were not done, when the children cried, or meals were not ready on time. When I found that if I earned money I could keep a little for myself, I left high school without a second thought.

At that time, I had the reputation of going to church and being tidy.  I thought to myself, “Maybe that’s why they might give me the maid’s job. Or maybe they’ve already gone through all the maids in town.” I put on my best hand-me-down dress. I walked up to the white house on the hill. It reminded me of one of the fancy layered wedding cakes I’d seen displayed in the front window at Waterman’s Bakery.

 I walked past the carriage house and the magnolias to the back, to the servants’ entrance, of course.  First Mrs. Washington and then Mrs. Edwards inspected me like I was a fish of doubtful freshness. Mrs. Washington wrinkled her nose.  Mrs. Edwards sniffed the air. Mrs. Washington was a black, sturdy woman with graying hair.  Her straight nose and the copper tint to her mahogany skin showed that some of her ancestors had been Cherokees. She wore a starched apron over a dress most women I knew would have loved to wear in church.  Mrs. Edwards, despite being older than Mrs. Washington, looked and moved like a schoolgirl. Her summer dress was like something out of a dream. With her pale complexion, clear blue eyes and white-blond hair, she was beautiful. She could have been my age. It set me to thinking that white years and colored years were not the same.

From the cracked piece of mirror in my bedroom, I knew what they saw.  I was short, muscular and black as coal, with a nose so broad and flat you’d swear I’d been smashed in the face with a skillet.

“She’s a churchgoer and not a pretty girl so she shouldn’t have bucks coming to the house while she works,” said Mrs. Edwards.

“She not too dirty,” said Mrs. Washington.

“Not considering where she comes from,” added Mrs. Edwards.  “She might possibly do.  It’s not like there are many choices.  Speak to me, child.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered. I didn’t know what to say after that.

“Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Edwards asked me.

“You’re Mrs. Edwards,” I said.

“That’s my name.  And who am I?”

I thought for a moment, not knowing how to answer.  “The doctor’s wife?”

“I am that and what else?”

I shook my head.

“Do you see the portraits on the wall?”

The painting closest to me showed a scowling, white-haired man with blue eyes so cold that it seemed he could freeze water just by his glare.  He wore a hat shaped like a triangle pointing out at me.  He wore a uniform of some sort with tight white leggings.  He was not someone to trifle with.  The second painting showed a man on horseback holding a naked sword.  He wore different uniform. His hat sat on angle on his head and had long swooping feathers.  His face wore the smile of a man looking to get into a tussle so he could hurt somebody.  I shivered.

“Yes, Ma’am.  They look scary.”

“They were staunch defenders of liberty. My ancestors fought in the American Revolution and defended us from northern aggression in the War Between the States.  I am a Daughter of the American Revolution and a United Daughter of the Confederacy.  My great-great-grandfather Morton helped found this town.  Did you know that some people say the original name of the town was Mortonville?”

I shook my head again.

“My people are judges, army officers, congressmen and people of merit.  They have been for as long as anyone can remember.  I think of myself as a lady of quality with a heritage to protect and a certain image to maintain regardless of the personal or financial cost.  Do you have any idea the burden that places on me?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Of course you don’t.  How could you?  What that means, Lizzie, is that I must act in accordance with the highest expectations and uphold standards of deportment and decorum that are rapidly eroding in these troubled times.  Do you understand that?”

“Not really, Ma’am.”

“Of course not.  Here I am prattling away about things beyond your knowledge.  Let me see if I can explain it simply. Lizzie, I must behave properly and politely even when those around me do not.  Can you understand that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“If you work for me, you must do things in a certain way because I require it.  You need not understand why a thing must be done a particular way.  You need only to do it exactly as I tell you.  Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Child, you cannot know the pressure I am under.  You may look up from Colored Town and think that the doctor’s wife up in the big house on the hill has it easy. You have no idea of the problems I face.  No idea at all.  Those I employ have to behave with a certain amount of dignity because they work for me.”

I nodded.

“I cannot abide stealing.”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I cannot allow dirtiness or sloppiness in your work.”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I especially shall not have a servant talk about what happens inside this house to anyone at all.  I cannot have you work for Mrs. Barker, Mrs. Scott, Mrs. White or any other of the so-called gentry in this town while you work for me.  Money, even in large quantities, does not equate with true gentility. Obviously, you cannot continue to work as a field hand.”

I frowned, worrying about paying my bills.

She put up a hand.

“Ordinarily, I would not even dream of giving a house servant’s job to a field hand, but I have heard good things about you and you seem to know your place so I will give you a chance. I will pay a sufficient wage. For the duties you will perform, the wage can be considered generous.  I will expect you on time every day without exception.  When I have a luncheon or a party, I will expect you to serve.  During the annual cotillion, you will assist Mrs. Washington in any way she tells you.  When I do not require your services here, you can clean the doctor’s office. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“When I start my new girls, I give them a test,” said Mrs. Edwards. “Can you set a table?”

Mrs. Washington, standing behind her, gave her head a tiny negative shake.

“I know how to set the table at home,” I answered cautiously.

“Let’s see how you do with my table.”  Mrs. Edwards made a graceful motion toward a polished ebony box on the table before me.

“What a pretty box,” I said.  “I’ve never seen the like.”

“I should think not.  Open it and set the table.”

Inside the box was a set of gleaming silverware.  I could tell that some were spoons and others were knives and forks but there were such a variety of shapes and sizes that I could not even imagine how many went to a setting.

I said, “They beautiful, but I don’t how to set ‘em out, Ma’am.”

“They belonged to my great-great-grandfather Morton.  This is one of very few treasures that my family has been able to hold on to.  So much has been lost.”

Mrs. Edwards paused and sighed.

You set them out like this, Lizzie.”  She laid out a place setting with speed and precision.  “Now you set out seven more just like mine.”

I studied what Mrs. Edwards had done and carefully laid out five settings identical to hers before I noticed that Mrs. Edwards’s forehead was creased and Mrs. Washington’s eyebrows were raised.  Take it from me; it was not a good idea for a colored woman to look too smart. It made white people nervous, which was a bad thing. I deliberately mixed up the spoons at the sixth place and switched the order of the forks at the seventh.

Mrs. Edwards’s forehead smoothed out, and Mrs. Washington lowered her eyebrows.

“That was remarkably well done for a first attempt, my dear,” said Mrs. Edwards.  “Let me show you how to make it perfect.”  She corrected the sixth and seventh places.  Then she moved a few utensils at other settings, as if I had made mistakes there, too.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I said.  “I don’t know why anyone would need so many forks and spoons when they only got two hands and one mouth.”

Mrs. Edwards smiled.  I could see her filing away in her mind another funny story about the ignorant colored maid to tell her friends. Mrs. Washington, behind her, nodded her approval.

“Nonsense, Lizzie. You did very well.  You passed the test.  I’m proud of you.  Mrs. Washington tells me your parents died when you were very young.  Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I was just a bitty child.”

“Then we will be your family.”

I could not imagine what it would be like to be any sort of kin to this beautiful white woman and the balding, red-faced doctor.

I’d heard of the doctor.  People said he accepted eggs and vegetables in payment from patients who had little money and that he did not even bill his poorest white clients. He was known to give the black doctor free medicine and supplies, claiming he’d ordered too much.  The first time I went to work at the doctor’s office, I overheard him say, “There’s a new girl?”  He rushed out of an examining room, smiling and with bright eyes.  He looked me over from head to foot.  The light went out of his eyes. Without saying a word, he turned around and headed back toward the examining room.  I remembered then that the colored maids Mrs. Edwards hired before me had all been pretty, tall, thin and light-skinned.

With time, the doctor came to treat me distantly but politely.  He complimented me on the way I cleaned his office.  He refused to let the secretary or the nurse give me their personal chores to do, but I don’t think he ever learned my name.

Over the months, Mrs. Edwards taught me how to iron tablecloths, wash clothes and scrub floors the way she wanted.  I quickly figured out that she was better at the chores than I would ever be.  Once when Mrs. Edwards was away, Eppie admitted privately that Mrs. Edwards was a better cook than she was.  Of course, with her social position, Mrs. Edwards hardly ever got to do what she was so good at.  I learned to serve food and drink and retrieve dirty plates and glasses without attracting attention.  I learned to speak only when spoken to and to remain deaf when I was spoken about like I wasn’t there.

At a party more than a year after I went to work for Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. Scott drank half a pitcher of mint juleps by herself.  She grabbed my arm and slurred words into my ear.

“How much is Mrs. Edwards paying you, honey?  I know she’s cheap and that husband of hers, with all his charity work, can barely pay to keep the roof on this mausoleum. If you come work for me, I’ll pay you half again as much as she gives you.

Just tell me how much that is.”

        “Please, Ma’am, I gots to go to the kitchen,” I said.  Mrs. Scott tightened her grip.  I was trapped. I could not pull my arm away or raise my voice to a white woman.  I stared at my feet and stood still.

        Mrs. Edwards called out, “Lizzie, I believe we need more canapés.”

        “Sorry, Ma’am, I gonna’ get ‘em.”  Mrs. Scott still did not release me.  I could not move.  Mrs. Edwards sailed over and, smiling, gently took Mrs. Scott’s hands.

        “I don’t believe you’ve seen the garden this season,” she said to Mrs. Scott.  “I’m sure it’s nothing to compare to yours.  Still, I would like to solicit your suggestions on what might be done with it.”

        I fled to the kitchen as quickly as I could.  Later, while I was washing dishes, Mrs. Edwards questioned me about what had happened.

        “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I should have gone ‘nother way to get to the kitchen.”

        “What did Mrs. Scott say to you?”

        I told her.

        “Have you been talking about us down in Colored Town?”

“No, Ma’am,” I said.  “Never.  They don’t even ax me no more.”

“You don’t talk about the doctor and his money?”

“No, Ma’am. ‘Sides, the doctor never say nothing about money.”

Mrs. Edwards nodded.  “You’re right, Lizzie.  I’ll bet the doctor doesn’t even know how much money he has.  He certainly doesn’t pay attention to how much his charity cases cost us.  You know, I believe Mrs. Scott was a little bit affected by the heat this evening. It is unusually warm for this time of year. I’m sure she was making a joke.”

“Yes, Ma’am.  I don’t never talk about you and the doctor with nobody.”

“You’re a good girl, Lizzie.  I’m sure you don’t.”

Mrs. Edwards turned to leave and then turned around to face me with a smile on her lips. Her eyes were ice cold.

“I’m concerned, Lizzie.  In this heat, people need more liquid than usual and Mrs. Scott appeared dehydrated this evening.  The next time we have her over, I want you to make sure to offer her a fresh libation every time her glass is empty. Can you pay particular attention to that, child?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

After Mrs. Edwards left the kitchen, through the closed door I could hear her talking to the doctor.

“My stars, sugar.  I swear Mrs. Scott’s liver must be as pickled as a beet.  With all the alcohol in her body, if she died, they couldn’t cremate her for fear of setting the entire county on fire.  Can’t you recommend a nice health spa to her husband where she can dry out?  Tell me. Was she really on a European trip last year or was she in a hospital for her drinking?”

Eating dinner the next day with just Eppie in the kitchen (Mrs. Edwards was at a church meeting) I repeated the conversation for her.  She cut loose.

“You gots to be careful, Lizzie.  White folks ain’t like us.  Wasn’t smart to say exactly what Mrs. Scott say.  Now Mrs. Edwards know you can repeat ‘xactly what she say, too. It’s better not to show what you can do.”

I noticed tears in her eyes as she continued, “You might think that working for they family, givin’ the best years in your life, they wouldn’t mind if you needed an extra hunk of ham when you have family with hungry babies visiting.  But you got to remember to ax before you pack it up because they can’t abide stealing.  If you forget, you got to beg to keep your job and smile grateful at ‘em when they say you can’t have the ham ‘cause you didn’t ax first and it ain’t convenient.”

A few months after the party, Mrs. Edwards hired a new colored gardener. She talked to me about him.

“Charles says he’s a minister,” she said.  “Have you heard him preach?”

“No, Ma’am.” I didn’t tell her that I had gone sour on the church a while back.  I had not heard anyone preach for more than a month and I didn’t pay attention to what folks said about the new preacher.

“You’d think that preachers would understand how important it is to maintain standards.  These days it’s preachers like that terrible Martin Luther King, Jr., who embarrass Southerners on the television.  They want to toss out everything we’ve lived by, everything that has given meaning to our lives.  If this new preacher is not the talk of Colored Town, he may be all right.”

She looked at me intently.  I didn’t say anything.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t know if he was the talk of Colored Town or not.  I had no truck with gossip and carrying tales.  Some thought I had gotten above my place and become uppity since I started working for Mrs. Edwards.  I didn’t mind, if that meant they left me alone.

Mrs. Edwards took my arm.  I saw a kind of hunger in her eyes. I knew she wanted something from me.  I had to give her something, but what?

“I …I hear he fools around with the womens in the church and talks about havin’  civil rights meetings.”

Mrs. Edwards asked, “Will you go the civil rights meetings?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Edwards tilted her head and said softly, “It may be, Lizzie, that I need you to attend and tell me what they say.  We’ll talk about that later.”  She smiled at me.  My mouth felt sour.  “It’s good that you told me, Lizzie.”

The new gardener, Charles Williams, looked like a proud African prince.  Lord, I’d never seen a man so beautiful.  He walked around like he owned the place.  When he took his shirt off because of the heat, his dark skin glistened.  Once I noticed Mrs. Edwards looking at him. She held her hands together over her breast and sighed.

Walking down the hill with me after a dinner party, Eppie told me she asked him why he worked as a gardener when his congregation would support him and he answered,  “‘People can barely take care of their families.  Whatever we do, we all labor in the same vineyard.’” She said he preached a lot that all people are equal in God’s sight.  She added, “Long as he don’t try to act like we all equal, he be okay.”

A few weeks later, I noticed Mrs. Edwards looked at me funny.  Several times she came into the room where I was working, but she didn’t say anything to me.  I was tempted to ask her why she was upset, but it wasn’t my place.  Coloreds did not question whites. At dinner, Mrs. Washington started to load a plate for me to take out to Charles. I noticed it was cracked just as Mrs. Edwards came into the kitchen, carrying a freshly cut magnolia blossom.

I said to Mrs. Edwards, “Ma’am, this plate is cracked.  What plate should we use for the gardener’s dinner?”

Mrs. Edwards stared at me as if she had never seen me before, and for the first time, I felt afraid.  She pointed to the plate that the dog ate off of.

“Use that.  Don’t wash it.  Just put his food on it and give it to him.”

I froze.

“Lizzie, you put food on that plate and take it to him.  Do it now.”

My insides were trembling and I thought I might faint.  I scooped food onto the dog’s plate, hoping she would change her mind or say it was a joke.  She didn’t.  Mrs. Washington filled a glass with ice water and rolled up utensils in a napkin.  She wouldn’t look at me. With my hands shaking and tears in my eyes, I took everything out to Charles.

“Much obliged,” he said.

I didn’t know what would happen if I told him. Nothing good. I didn’t say a word.  I set everything down on a garden bench.  I walked away.  I stood in the shadow on the porch and thoughts came into my head.  Eppie would retire soon.  If I slipped into her place, I could have a better life than almost any other colored woman in town. The work wasn’t hard.  I wouldn’t end up like many field hands, bent over and in unending pain.  All I had to do was to please Mrs. Edwards and hand over my soul one slice at a time. I realized that Mrs. Edwards would never dirty her hands with spiteful acts.  She didn’t have to.  She could dirty mine.

I walked to my room, packed my clothes in a cardboard box, and took all the money I had. I walked three miles to the bus station in Petersburg.  I asked the man how far north I could go with sixteen dollars.  He said I could take the late bus to St. Louis and transfer to one going to Kansas City.  He told me that on the late bus I could sit anywhere I wanted.  I sat in the station until the bus boarded that night. I wondered if a wounded soul could heal.  I wondered what I would do the next time someone treated me like I was not there. I took a seat close to the front window.  I looked ahead as the bus pulled out.  I never looked back.