The Tobacco Wives, page 4
The fields were dotted with men and women dressed in Bright Leaf Tobacco coveralls. Some were white, but most of the laborers were Black. There were also dozens of smaller bodies in the distance—children toiling alongside the adults. Many were barefoot and dressed only in short pants, the sun baking the tops of their shoulders while they wielded hoes twice their size. Some were just little bitty things, probably years younger than me.
My only farming experience was helping Frances weed her strawberry beds last summer; she had given me a shiny penny for every clump of quack grass or chickweed I pulled. At the end of that day, when I complained about my sore arms and back, she said, “You don’t know sore ’til you’ve topped and hoed tobacco from dawn to dusk. You best keep up your sewing, Maddie May, and your studies in school.”
“Are they picking already?” I asked Aunt Etta, pointing out the window.
The workers were moving between rows, pulling the tops off plants with a sure flick of their wrists, then throwing the petals on the ground. I could just make out the lonely trail of red flowers they left behind them.
“No, they’re topping and suckering for the next week or so. Then they’ll start picking. You remember what topping is, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that when they break off the flowers at the top of the plants?”
“That’s right,” said Aunt Etta. “Getting rid of the flowers sends more energy to the leaves, makes them bigger.” I knew topping made sense for the farmers, but I thought it was sad to cut off the prettiest part of the plant like that.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No other tobacco compared to Bright Leaf, the way it smelled of ripe peaches and fresh cut grass.
“Put that window back up, Maddie. This heat’s about to kill me.”
I did as she said, and she closed her eyes against the heat. Looking at her smooth and unlined skin, you’d never guess she was in her fifties. Once, when Daddy bragged about her looking so young, Momma said it was because she was chubby. The extra flesh on Aunt Etta’s face stretched out all the wrinkles, said Momma, like a balloon full of air.
It was just like Momma to say something like that. She was jealous of Daddy’s relationship with Aunt Etta and it showed. I’d never once thought of her as fat. She was a big woman, sure—with broad shoulders and strong capable hands. But she was easy in her body, knew how to dress it with style, and always looked put-together. As far back as I could remember, she’d worn a different version of the same outfit every day, a bias-cut shirtwaist dress that was sharp and crisp even in the most wilting heat. Because she favored neutral shades like gray, cream, or navy, she dolled them up with a colorful pincushion she wore on her wrist like a corsage. She’d collected and constructed hundreds of them over the years, and never left the house without first sliding one of the pretty, pumpkin-shaped pieces over her right hand. Frances would pretend to tease her about them. “Well get a load of you. Guess somebody’s going to the prom after all.”
I felt the dirt road level out beneath us. Steam rose up off the smooth black tar, now that we were passing through town. Maples and sycamores lined the road like soldiers. The houses stood a ways apart, their yards showing off pink azaleas and rhododendrons in full bloom.
We passed an imposing, cream-colored mansion with a fancy, wrought iron porch swing. It looked like a fairy tale—pretty as a picture and just as perfect, the swing moving back and forth, just barely, in the breeze. What if I lived in that house and could swing on that porch anytime I wanted?
Quit it, Maddie. Stop your daydreaming. Fairy tales don’t come true and you don’t belong here. These people will know it soon as you walk in the door, so you better get rid of any highfalutin notions you have. You’re here to help Aunt Etta and learn how to become a dressmaker. Don’t you forget it.
I didn’t like to talk so harsh to myself, but it had to be done. Everything was swirling around me and I had to keep my head level. But gosh, it was all happening so fast. Just last night I had been sleeping in my own bed and now this rickety bus was taking me to a grand old home with maids and everything. Aunt Etta said the Winstons’ house had more rooms than you could count, and we’d be working in the upstairs parlor, one of her favorite rooms on account of the gorgeous, embroidered drapery panels. They were floral bark cloth, which I had only heard about. She didn’t have to tell me that I wasn’t to touch them, but she did.
Rich or wealthy made no difference. It always meant don’t touch.
“Come on, honey. This is our stop.” Aunt Etta elbowed me. She grabbed a shiny metal pole and pulled herself to standing, the seat creaking as her weight shifted. I carried her sewing box as we made our way off the bus.
The air was cooler outside and helped me feel less nervous.
As if reading my mind, Aunt Etta said, “Wait until you feel how nice and chilled it is inside the house. They’ve got the only air conditioner in Bright Leaf.” She went on to explain how the light-colored sidewalks and trees also helped account for the difference. They didn’t pull as much heat and kept the air circulating.
We walked past a large brick house and two driveways that curved so you couldn’t see where they led.
“Here we are,” Aunt Etta said, stopping at a road to our right.
It took my breath, the sight of it. The house, of course, but the trees too. Beautiful and noble, there must have been twenty huge elms flanking the driveway leading to the house far in the distance. Taller by far than any I’d ever seen, their smooth trunks, closer to gray than brown, were so thick that a grown man couldn’t get his arms around them.
The bleach-white house stood at the end of the endless driveway, tall columns reaching from the front porch to the roof four stories up. As we made our way up the drive, the road beneath our feet turned from pavement to small, smooth bits of gravel that glinted in the sun like jewels. I bent down to pick up a sparkly gold piece and placed it in my satchel.
At the end of the trees was a tiny box of a building, no bigger than a coat closet. A man appeared and waved to us. He wore a black jacket and slacks, his white shirt crisp and bright. He removed his hat as he greeted us.
“’Morning, ladies.”
“’Morning, Isaac. This is my niece, Maddie.”
He nodded and smiled at me.
“This your nephew’s daughter?”
“Yes she is,” said Aunt Etta.
“What a fine young lady, and so grown. You what, about seventeen years old?”
“No, sir,” I replied. “I’m fifteen.”
“Well, your aunt sure loved your daddy,” he said. “Thought he hung the moon.”
“Oh, yes, Jack was something special all right,” Aunt Etta said.
They both went quiet. People always stopped talking when Daddy’s name came up.
“Well, nice to meet you, young lady,” Isaac said, returning his hat to his head. I liked his voice. You could hear the smile behind it. For a split second, I wished I could just wait out here with him while Aunt Etta did the fitting. This way I wouldn’t risk embarrassing myself, or worse, Aunt Etta.
“Maddie’s going to be working with me for a while.”
“Oh, Mrs. Winston will love that,” said Isaac. “That’ll really lift her spirits.”
What a surprising thing to say. As if a wealthy woman like Mrs. Winston would need her spirits lifted.
“We best go on now,” Aunt Etta said, leading the way toward the house. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”
“Heavens no!” Isaac shouted after us.
A stone path led up to the house, bright green grass cut as short as an officers’ high-and-tight on either side. Potted red azaleas framed the black front door. Aunt Etta tapped a large brass W against a metal plate.
I’d barely had time to smooth my dress when a young woman opened the door and waved her hand for us to come on in. When we crossed the threshold, the air felt nice and cool.
“Thank you, Ruth,” Aunt Etta said to the young woman. She had vivid green eyes, light brown skin, and an abundance of wavy black hair tied at the nape of her neck. Her crisp blue uniform was covered with a minute maid apron, with pleats running across the hips and front. I felt like a child next to her, but she couldn’t have been much older than me. Eighteen, maybe nineteen at most.
“This is my niece, Maddie,” Aunt Etta said. “Maddie,” she turned to me. “This is Miss Ruth. She pretty much runs the place,” she whispered.
Miss Ruth giggled. “Nice to meet you, Maddie,” she said. “Y’all can go on up to the parlor.”
I followed Aunt Etta through the marble foyer that led to the staircase—two staircases, really, one on either side that climbed up to meet in the middle at a balcony. As we walked upstairs, I ran my hand along the glossy banister.
“Don’t touch that,” she warned.
At the end of a quiet hall was a set of heavy double doors that opened into a light-filled space. In the center of the room sat a three-way mirror and a raised, round platform. It was carpeted, like the ones in the department stores. Chairs and chaise lounges covered in delicate florals were arranged in small groups around the room, and a pink gingham bench sat in front of a vanity. One wall was painted green, and the others were covered with wallpaper, cheerful stripes of white, pink, and yellow, the same yellow as the roses that sat on the coffee table. There was a silver teapot and floral teacups, a small silver bowl with sugar cubes, a tiny spoon resting next to it.
On the green wall hung a life-size painting of a woman in a wedding dress, the white skirt of her gown filling the whole bottom of the gold frame. I guessed it was Mrs. Winston. Her waist was impossibly small, and she rested one side of her lovely face in a petite, gloved hand. She smiled without showing her teeth. Aunt Etta pulled me by the sleeve. “Stop gawking. Here she comes.”
Heels click-clacked down the hallway, accompanied by a faint jingling that grew louder until it stopped just outside the parlor. The knobs turned, the doors opened, and the air around us changed, as if a sweet and smoky breeze had entered the room.
“Etta! Thank goodness you’re here,” Mrs. Winston said, beaming. Her eyes widened when she noticed me standing there. “Surely this isn’t?” she said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air. “Surely this grown-up young lady can’t be your niece!”
“Yes, she is,” Aunt Etta said. “The very one. This is Maddie. My great-niece, really. My nephew Jack’s daughter. She’s staying with me . . . for a while, assisting with fittings. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” she repeated. “Of course I don’t mind. In fact, I’m tickled pink.” She walked over to me and took my hands in hers. “Oh, and I am so very sorry about your father, Maddie,” she said, lowering her voice. “What a brave man, and what a terrible loss for you. It’s wonderful you’re here with Etta now, though. I’m so glad to have a chance to get to know you.”
She pulled back to get a better look at me, her tiny fingers tucked into mine. “Who could forget that hair? Just beautiful! Half the ladies in town would kill for those auburn curls. The color is to die for,” she said, releasing my hands and giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
I’d been self-conscious about my hair my whole life. In grade school the boys had chased me around chanting “carrot top,” and one of the older girls at school had nicknamed me Raggedy Ann. Daddy told me not to pay any mind, that they were just jealous. “Red hair on your head means fire in your heart,” he said. I liked that, but I still wanted to have a silky pageboy like Virginia and Betty. Momma did her best to straighten my unruly mop, but it always curled right back up. Then Daddy died and suddenly my red hair didn’t seem like a curse. It made me feel close to him, like a piece of him was with me always. But Momma was jealous of what I had with Daddy, even in death, and for the months since, she’d made me feel there was something wrong with me. It wasn’t right, a mother making her daughter feel bad about her looks. April’s mother was always fussing with her in the nicest way. She’d smooth her cowlick and make sure she brushed her hair one hundred times before bed. Not mine. “Cover your hair” was the advice I got. But with Momma gone, I didn’t have to wear a kerchief. Mrs. Winston was right. My hair was beautiful and I’d be proud of it, I decided.
“You must tell me every little thing about yourself, Maddie,” Mrs. Winston cooed. “I want to hear all of it! Have you already completed your schooling for the spring?”
“Well, Mrs. Winston,” I began.
“Please, dear. Call me Miss Mitzy. Everybody does.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Miss Mitzy. Well, I just finished year ten.”
“She’s a good student,” Aunt Etta said, removing a tin of pins from her sewing box and handing them to me. “Real talented in art, sewing, and writing, anything creative.”
I thought about Mrs. Sellars, my art teacher. She had pulled me aside during the last week of term for a serious talk. “You have real potential, Maddie,” she said. “It would be a shame to waste it.” She handed me a brochure for the North Carolina College of the Arts. They had a fashion apprenticeship, one of the best in the country. “Promise me you’ll at least talk to your mother about it.”
I said I would, but of course I was lying.
Momma didn’t approve of college for girls—a waste of time, she called it—and even if she did approve, we didn’t have the money.
The last time I saw Daddy, the night before he left for Germany, the two of us ended up having a talk about college and other important things too, a real serious heart-to-heart. We’d gone for an evening stroll after supper, the October mountain air cool and crisp as we made our way down the dirt road from our house.
Momma had acted a mess during dinner that night. She had sobbed through the first part of our meal, then fussed at Daddy for abandoning us by the time she served the meat. Daddy had been clever about it, though: he’d distracted her by turning the conversation to the new GI Bill that had just passed in Congress and how it guaranteed all sorts of wonderful benefits to veterans, including a free college education.
“You just wait, Grace,” he had said, grabbing Momma’s hand. “When I get back from the front, I’m going straight to Duke or Carolina for engineering, and then I’ll give you the rich girl’s life, I swear.”
“Is that right?” Momma had replied, suddenly perking up. “A college education . . . for free? Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” Daddy had said, grinning at me. “After Maddie’s last report card, I have a feeling I won’t be the only one in this family going to college. What do you think, Shug, should we go together? Will you tutor your old man if he needs help?”
Momma had bristled at that. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. She isn’t going to college, unless it’s to skip class and find herself a fancy husband.” She was just getting started. “You go get your BA Jack, and Maddie here can go out for her MRS.”
“Momma!” I’d cried.
“I’ll tell you another thing, Madeline—the pedigreed boys, the ones most worth having, do not go in for girls who act smarter than them. So you’d best keep that report card to yourself if you ever meet one.”
Daddy didn’t disagree with Momma in the moment, but he had plenty to say when we went on our private walk. He’d told me that things were changing for women. They could get jobs now, take care of themselves if they wanted to. They didn’t have to rely on men, especially men who didn’t treat them with respect.
“Look at Aunt Etta,” he’d said, elbowing me lightly so I’d look at him. “She’s smart, like you. She supports herself.”
I said I guessed so, but Momma was always preaching the opposite—that women were supposed to act like they couldn’t do anything without a man.
“Your mother didn’t have the opportunities you have, Maddie,” Daddy had said. “Best bear that in mind.”
“Maddie,” Aunt Etta said, bringing me back to the moment. “Mrs. Winston asked you a question.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. I had a bad habit of getting lost in my thoughts. “I’m going to be a professional dressmaker,” I said boldly. Remembering Daddy’s encouraging words had given me a boost of confidence. “Like my aunt. Maybe I’ll even go to college one day. The North Carolina College of the Arts has a fashion apprenticeship.”
“Well, aren’t you a pip!” Mitzy said. “You know, I do believe talent like that runs in the family. Your aunt’s mother used to sew for my mother. Did you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am. She was just telling me about Great-grandma Lottie this morning.”
“Oh, what Charlotte could do with a needle and thread.” Mitzy sighed. “I remember a darling dress she made for me. It was the softest velvet—pale blue it was, with a Peter Pan collar. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, but I felt so grown-up.”
The dress sounded lovely. I hadn’t much practice with velvet. It was slippery and thick, which made it hard to handle.
“Maybe you can make something for me one of these days,” Mitzy said, smiling at me.
“I’d like that,” I replied. “I constructed two gowns by myself last summer. I adore sewing formal wear.” Aunt Etta frowned and shook her head slightly. I guess I wasn’t supposed to say that. I’d never talked to her about the fashion apprenticeship either and here I was going on and on like Mitzy was an old friend. Just listen, Maddie. Don’t talk too much.
“Did you?” Mitzy pivoted to catch my eye. “I’m so impressed.” She studied me for a moment, a faraway look in her eye. “You know, Maddie, you actually remind me of myself at your age. I dreamed of going to college too.”
I wanted to know more but knew better than to ask.
She sighed and shook off the thought, returning to gaze at herself in the mirror. “I only have an hour before my Garden Club meeting, Etta. We’re making arrangements for a luncheon at church. Won’t that be fun? I do hope we’ll have enough time to finish this.”
