The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [12]
Thomas Lee Patterson was a handsome man. But he’d been in the slaughterhouse for nearly three years. He’d never get out.
“Much obliged,” I said to him, “but you know my father. Most likely he’s out there now, on the stoop, waiting for me.” That was because, I could have added, Dad didn’t want anybody courting me, he didn’t want me getting married. Him and Mama counted on my wages.
“Yes, ma’am, I do. Men back home, that’s how they do for their daughters. It’s just that your daddy, he drags that leg of his so bad, thought maybe it’d go easier for him if somebody else was seeing to you.”
“Where you from, Mr. Patterson?”
“Huntsville, Alabama.”
“Well then. You’re a Southern gentleman just like Dad.” I took off my apron and put it in a laundry basket for Trudy, the housemaid, to launder. “Now out of my kitchen,” I said, flapping my hands. “All of you. Out.”
“But—,” Thomas Lee said.
“Out,” I said as if I didn’t know his meaning. One of the other men laughed. I shot him a hard look, shushing him. Thomas Lee’s head drooped. I stepped close to him, wanting to make him feel better. “It’s my father. He’s old-fashioned,” I whispered, shrugging my shoulders as if to say that otherwise it’d be different. He drew in some air and gave me a quick glance as he left. He didn’t believe me but pride kept him from pressing. Pride, I also knew, would keep Thomas Lee out of the kitchen from then on. He’d have to find something else to do to fill the lonesome evening hours, and that made me feel bad. But not bad enough to change my mind.
Alone in the kitchen, I hung up the last frying pan and put the footstool back in the corner. I set the dining table for the morning, and then, after giving the kitchen one last look to make sure everything was in its place, I turned off the electric lights.
Outside in the crisp April evening, Dad leaned hard on his cane and heaved himself up off the top step of the back stoop. He tossed his glowing cigarette butt at a rat. He missed.
“Ready?” he said. Then, seeing the cloth sack in my hand, Dad pointed. “Something I like? Fried pork, maybe?”
One afternoon not long after, I was stoking up the cookstove fire, getting it hot enough to bake my bread, when Mrs. DuPree swooped into the kitchen, her round body making the room feel too tight for the both of us. It wasn’t like her to bother with me in the middle of the day. Afternoons were when Mrs. DuPree liked to go over her accounts and order supplies for the house. Either that or call on friends, sit in their parlors, sip tea from fine bone china, and exchange ideas about how best to advance the Negro race.
“Rachel,” Mrs. DuPree said that day, “I want you to help Trudy with the cleaning. You’ll have to stay late a few evenings.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. We’d just done spring cleaning last month.
“My son’s coming home. He’ll be on leave, expects to be here for several weeks.”
My heart fluttered.
Mrs. DuPree waved an opened envelope. She put on her eyeglasses, pulled out the letter, and read it to herself, her lips putting shape to each word. “He’s to arrive next Wednesday. That’s if the trains run on time.” She peered out the kitchen window. Elevated railroad tracks crisscrossed every which way two blocks over. “Still surprises me to think they have trains out there in Nebraska.”
“Nebraska,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about Isaac DuPree. I had met him once before when Mrs. DuPree took sick with pneumonia and the doctor declared her on death’s doorstep. Isaac rushed home; he was just back from winning the war in Cuba. That had been five years ago. I had given up on ever seeing him again.
Mrs. DuPree pushed her eyeglasses back up and