Authors: Jean Stone
“As our very first girl, you get the prettiest room in the house.”
The door swung open into a large, sunny room, tastefully done in yellow and pastel shades of aqua and green. A single bed and a rock-maple bureau and matching wardrobe dominated the room. In front of a picture window stood a desk and chair; beside that, an easy chair, covered with the same soft aqua fabric used for the bedspread. An aroma of wood soap lingered in the room. All in all, it was clean and warm and not unpleasant.
“I hope you enjoy it, dear. The bathroom is right next door. You’ll find your linens in the wardrobe. Why don’t you rest until dinner at six? Then you can meet the staff and learn what’s expected of you. We all have to pitch in, you know. After all, this isn’t a hotel!” She smiled and closed the door behind her.
Jess sat on the edge of the bed, feeling only a slight numbness. Well, she made it. Now she was committed. This was the room where she would wait. Where she would have time to wait until Richard worked out their plan—their plan for how, after the baby was born, Richard could come and rescue her, a way for them to be together with their baby. Yes. Richard would come and get her.
Wouldn’t he?
She curled her arms around herself and slowly rocked back and forth.
Jess was awakened by a chill. The late-afternoon sun had faded, a reminder that summer was still far away. She sat up quickly, unsure at first of where she was, an unfamiliar silence enveloping, then frightening, her. Then she remembered.
She stood up slowly and smoothed the bedspread. She had not meant to sleep. Glancing at her gold Elgin watch, Jess noticed it was quarter to six. Time to get cleaned up and go downstairs. Downstairs. Strangers. How terrified she was of talking to strangers! And now—
here
. What
would they say? What would
she
say? Oh, God, she thought, what am I doing here?
Suddenly a tremor rushed through her body. She raced out the door.
Where is the bathroom?
Her eyes darted up and down the hall. Next door, she remembered Miss Taylor had said. She spotted the door, struggled with the glass knob, then bolted into the cold square room. She caught sight of the metal stall, fled to the toilet, quickly stooped over it, and vomited.
Jess wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, knelt on the newly installed linoleum, and clutched the damp porcelain bowl. She waited for the nausea to subside. How long would the sickness go on? She tried to think about Richard, of their baby. She tried to think about how happy they were going to be—together. Then the sterile odor of ammonia and pine cleaner rose from the floor, and Jess retched again.
Exhausted, she slumped back against the metal partition and sucked at the saliva in her mouth, trying to dissolve the sour taste. She grasped the toilet, pulled herself up, then steadied her slight, weary body. The nausea had passed.
She returned to her room and collected her toothbrush, toothpaste, and makeup from the vanity case. This time when she entered the bathroom, she was aware of its clinical air.
Two shallow sinks were screwed to the plaster wall. A narrow metal shelf separated them from a plate-glass mirror. Beside the toilet stall stood a narrow shower enclosure, from which a white plastic curtain hung on metal clips. The only natural light came from a small frosted glass window; a fluorescent tube beamed from the tiled ceiling and was reflected in the waxed linoleum—flooring that was white with gold iridescent flecks, clean and sparkling, yet oddly rippled on the uneven floor. Jess shuddered. This was definitely a place conducive to vomiting.
She quickly freshened up, eager to leave the dreadful room but anxious about the unknown that awaited her downstairs. She stood for a moment, staring into the mirror,
remembering how frightened and miserable she’d been when she’d been sent off to school last year, away from home, away from Richard.
“In time it will get easier,” her mother had said.
And though Jess had been so lonely and self-conscious that she’d barely talked to anyone for weeks, her mother had been right. It had gotten easier, in time. But this wasn’t school. This was a home for unwed mothers. A place where other girls ended up, not Jessica Bates. But now she was one of them—a good girl gone bad. Why on earth would anyone want to talk to her?
“This time, Mother, it will only be easier once it’s over,” she said, half-aloud, into the mirror.
Mother, she thought, and wondered if any of this would have happened if her mother were still alive. Would Jess have let Richard go “all the way” if she hadn’t been so upset over Mother’s death? She drew in a deep breath and knew that probably she would have, sooner or later. After all, she loved Richard. And Richard loved her.
She left the bathroom, made her way down the sweeping staircase, then followed the sounds of clacking utensils and low voices. She paused a moment, searching for the courage to keep going.
Richard, she thought. She straightened the belt on her beige linen skirt and stepped into a huge, glowing kitchen. The voices ceased. Her stomach fluttered. Had they been talking about her? She held her hands together, trying to stop them from trembling.
Miss Taylor was seated at a round oak table, carefully sorting salad greens. At the center of the room a middle-aged negro woman stood at a stainless-steel island, cutting circles of biscuit dough on a floured pastry board. She was a big woman with black springy hair, caught tightly in a hair net. A worn canvas apron stretched across her ample front, and from behind her flour-spotted eyeglasses, Jess noted dark, tense-looking eyes.
Jess stood still.
Miss Taylor cleared her throat.
“Jessica, my dear, I see you found us. Did you have a nap?”
“Yes,” she replied, and focused on the pastry board where the other woman had resumed her work.
“This is Mrs. Hines, Jess. Our wonderful cook. And this,” she continued, turning to look at the woman, “is Miss Bates. Our first arrival.”
The woman nodded but didn’t look at Jess. “Chicken pot pie tonight. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. But that’s all you get. Them’s the rules.”
Jess felt a queasiness rise in her stomach.
Miss Taylor cleared her throat again. “I’m sure Miss Bates will enjoy it,” she chirped.
The cook scowled and peeled excess dough from around the circles.
“I’m—I’m sure it will be fine,” Jess stammered.
“Pop will be in shortly,” Miss Taylor said. “Pop,” Jess figured, must be Mr. Hines. She wondered if he would be as unfriendly as his wife. “Will you set the table?” The housemother gestured toward a stack of thick china plates on an upper shelf by the pantry.
Jess’s eyes moved to the plates. Set the table. Yes. That would give her something to do. “How many?” she squeaked.
“Just the two of us. Pop and Mrs. Hines eat in their apartment over the carriage house.”
“I’d best get the plates,” the cook growled, and wiped her hands on her apron. She reached up onto the shelf. “A woman with child shouldn’t stretch over her head. The cord can strangle the baby.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hines,” Miss Taylor laughed. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
The negro woman snorted. “Think what you’d like. But I ain’t gonna be held responsible.” She plopped the plates on the counter and went back to work on the pastry.
Miss Taylor winked at Jess. “The silverware and linens are in the sideboard in the dining room,” she said. “Through that door.” She motioned to a large swinging door beside the table.
Jess took the plates off the counter. “Thank you, Mrs. Hines,” she said. And thank you, God, she thought, that I don’t have to eat dinner with her.
She pushed through the door into the next room and automatically felt for a wall switch. The enormous room lit up amber. There before Jess was a long table, stretched to seat twelve. A sparkling crystal bowl sat in the center, filled with daffodils and white tulips. Against one wall was a massive sideboard; on it stood three pairs of silver candlestick holders in varying heights. The candles were pale yellow, their wicks white and stiff, not yet charred. Loosely woven off-white curtains hung from the high windows. As Jess carefully stepped across the worn yet freshly vacuumed Oriental rug, the kitchen door closed behind her. Once again she heard low voices from the other room. Mrs. Hines was no doubt talking about her. Jess had never felt so alone.
After dinner that night Jess escaped to her room. She sat at the small oak desk, and took out the box of pale vellum screened with blue butterflies, the stationery she always used when writing to Richard.
Dear Richard
, she began.
Well, I made it. It’s not so bad here. The housemother, Miss Taylor, is real nice, but I don’t think the cook likes me very much. It doesn’t matter, though, because every time I eat, I throw up
.
She leaned back in the chair and chewed the tip of her pen. It was hard to know what to say to Richard. She didn’t want him to worry about her. She crumpled the sheet and began again.
Dear Richard
,
Well, I made it, and I miss you already. It isn’t so bad here, and at least I won’t have to face Father every day. And I know you’ll figure out a way for us to be together
.
Father won’t let me get any mail here—so there’s no point in you writing. He won’t say your name, but I know it’s you he’s afraid of me getting letters from. Don’t worry though, I’ll write every day so you’ll know how I’m doing. Even Father can’t stop that
.
She filled the page and went on to another, telling him over and over how much she loved him. When she got to the end of the letter, Jess quickly signed it and tucked it into the envelope, before her tears could spill onto the vellum.
She got up from the chair and stretched out on the bed, then opened the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her calendar. May 24. Jess crossed out the date with a thick black marker and reached to touch the hardly visible swell of her stomach. Not quite seven months to go. She closed her eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of her father in snapshot vignettes of anger and coldness.
It was still early, but as Jess went down the huge,
Gone With the Wind
staircase, she could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen. Mrs. Hines must be making breakfast, she thought. The later she had to face the woman, the better. Jess slipped out the front door unnoticed. She smiled. This would be real easy when Richard came to take her away.
She knew there must be a mailbox in town, and she headed down the long driveway, trying to remember the direction they’d come from when Father had brought her yesterday. Was that only yesterday? Jess reached the road. Left. Definitely left. She remembered the way the stone wall curved into the driveway, and she supposed all she needed to do was follow the stone wall into town.
The morning air was chilly, and Jess pulled her loden coat tighter around her narrow hips. It was the coat her mother had bought her for those damp London mornings; by autumn, Jess knew, it would probably no longer fit.
In less than half an hour Jess turned the corner onto Main Street. She spotted the small houselike building right away, with its American flag shining in the morning sun.
U.S. POST OFFICE
, the sign read. She went up to the front door. It was locked. A hand-printed sign was taped to the window:
HOURS
: 8
A.M. TO
4
P.M. MON.-FRI
. Beneath the sign was a small slot.
DROP MAIL HERE
, another hand-scratched sign read, with an arrow pointing down toward the opening.
Jess took Richard’s letter from her pocket. She hesitated. Should she drop it in the slot? Would it be safely mailed? She didn’t want to take any chances. She needed to be sure he’d get her letter.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Jess jumped. She turned to see a man in a gray-blue uniform standing behind her. He had longish black hair sprinkled with gray and a coarse-looking mustache. His face was pockmarked and laced with purple veins; his nose swollen. She recognized that look. The man was a drinker.
“I need to mail a letter,” she said quietly. “I just didn’t know if I should drop it in the slot. It’s kind of important.”
His tiny brown eyes looked her over. “You from around here? You don’t look familiar.”
She felt a flush come into her cheeks. “No.” She didn’t know what else to say.
He took a huge ring of keys from his jacket and jangled them until he found the one he wanted. “You can come in if you want. I’ll see that letter gets on its way through the U.S. mail.”
The man reminded her of the cockney pub-goers she’d always crossed to the other side of the street to avoid, but Jess stepped behind him through the door. The post office, and this man, however frightening he seemed, were her only link to Richard now. Jess stepped into the office. There wasn’t much there: just some cubbyholes along the wall with letters hanging out and a couple of canvas sacks on the floor. She stood beside a picture of President Johnson while the man walked behind the counter. He belched and rubbed his huge stomach, which hung over his belt. Jess noticed the buttons on his shirt were stretched open from the strain of his bulk.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“What?”
“Coffee. Want some coffee?”
“Oh. No, thank you. I just want to mail my letter.”
“Too bad.” He belched again. “I was hoping you’d
make some. Can’t stand my own coffee.” He laughed crudely.
Jess clutched the envelope more tightly. “No,” she said. “Just mail the letter, please.”
The man sighed loudly. He took the envelope from Jess as though he were being interrupted from more interesting things, and he studied the address. “New York, huh? That where you from?”
Jess fumbled in the pocket of her jacket for her change. “Yes. I’ll need some stamps too. Ten for now.” She put the coins on the counter.
The man opened a wooden drawer and separated ten stamps from a large sheet. “New York,” he repeated. “Well, little lady, we don’t get many of you highfalutin’ types around here.”
Jess reached for the stamps, and he slapped a weathered palm over her hand. His knuckles were gnarled; two of his fingertips were, like Miss Taylor’s, stained bronze with nicotine. Jess froze.