T. Boyle - The Women

For a long moment she simply sat there, watching him. There was something intrinsically fascinating about the Negro’s movements — he was so fluid and athletic — and he wasn’t so much dancing, she realized, as conducting, as if the brush were his baton and the stone of the fireplace his orchestra. But that was a foolish thought, the stone an orchestra. What was she thinking? She had work to do. She turned back to the page before her (For many men, too many men, sexual attraction precedes any notion of love, and this too often leads to. .), but the rhythmic swish of the wire brush distracted her and before long she was staring out the window. He truly was a good worker, she thought, glancing up at him again. She watched his shoulders dip and rise, the brush sweeping to and fro like a hypnotist’s watch, thinking she’d been too harsh on him that first day, too judgmental, too quick to take offense. . but then she saw the rage in his face all over again, the way he’d snapped at his wife, and thought how wrong it was, how inadmissible, how primitive.

He needed education, that was all. There were cultural differences at work here, just as there were in Japan and even Germany, but still, beneath it all, the attitudes were the same. Male attitudes. Archaic. Barbaric. Suddenly she felt herself go out to him — she could help, she could, not simply him but Gertrude too. Her eyes fell on the low table before her, and there, amidst a scatter of books and notepaper, was one of her presentation copies of The Woman Movement , still in its wrapper. 170She took it up on an impulse and rose to her feet. He was an intelligent man, she was sure of it, the sort of man who would welcome the gift of knowledge, thank her a thousand times over, because now, for the first time, he would see the other side of the coin, the woman’s side, see how his wife felt and should be made to feel.

The only problem was that she didn’t know what to call him, not under the circumstances — Julian was too familiar and Carleton too formal. She saw the muscles clench in his shoulders as the sound of her footsteps drew closer, noticed the briefest hesitation before both arms swung back into motion, and then she was standing over him, the reek of the gasoline fumes in her face, clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, “Mr. Carleton, Julian. ”

He turned at the sound of his name, a slow rotation of his head, the hair there cut short so that it clung to his skin in dark whorls like some extraneous growth wheeling out across the expanse of his skull, but he remained in his crouch, one knee braced against the coping, the brush arrested. And here were his eyes coming into play, dark eyes, so dark she could scarcely distinguish iris from pupil. He stared up at her, his eyes fixed, his features immobile.

She held the book in both hands as if it were a missal, her fingers playingover the wrapper. “I just wanted to say,” she began, “what a splendid job you and your wife are doing. I’m very pleased. Very pleased indeed. And I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Wright.” She hesitated. His eyes were dead, his lips pressed tight. “I’m sure he’ll be — well, he’ll be pleased too. I’m sure.”

If the moment was awkward it was made even more so by the fact that he was kneeling, as if he were bowing to her in subjugation, as if he were a slave in the old South — a darkie — and she the overseer’s wife. Mrs. Legree, Mrs. Mamah Borthwick Legree, her whipping boy at her beck and call. He didn’t smile, he didn’t nod, didn’t utter a word. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t know why or what she had to apologize for, “—to, to interrupt you like this. You’re doing a very fine job there. But I just wanted to say — about that first interview — well, I’d like you to have this.” She held out the book to him, and without coming up out of his crouch, he shifted the brush to his left hand and took it from her with his right, his gestures so slow and deliberate he might have been moving underwater. He didn’t even glance at the book. Just held her eyes, as if to await further instructions. Or any instructions.

“I think you’ll find this rewarding,” she went on. “Enlightening too, I hope. You see, no matter what our various cultures proclaim, marriage is almost everywhere the same. And, by and large, the women are the ones to suffer — under the current system, the system under which we’ve had to live from time immemorial, from the time of Moses and beyond, the Egyptians, I suppose, the Mesopotamians — women have been unequal partners and must live out their lives unfulfilled, in either love or work. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Nothing. He knelt there in his fumes.

“I’m speaking of Gertrude. Of your wife.”

Suddenly his face opened up. “Oh, don’t you worry about her,” he said, and he was grinning now. “I’ve got that under control.”

“No, I don’t think you understand — she needs to express herself.” The grin faded. He was shaking his head side to side. “I know that, ma’am, and that’s why I work her day and night to stop her talking like a bush nigger and use the King’s English. And she will. She will. ” His eyes stared out past her, as if he were addressing someone across the room. His voice went cold. “I promise you that.”

When Frank came home for two days at the weekend, he was every bit as pleased as she was with the new help. Billy Weston fetched him from the station an hour before dinner, and he blew into the house like a cool breeze, taking her in his arms and dancing round the room with her before thrusting a foil-wrapped box of chocolates at her and disappearing into the drafting room to confer with Emil and Herbert. Of course, he couldn’t help shifting a vase from one shelf to another along the way or sliding a chair six inches to the right before deciding to move it back again — it was a compulsion with him — but the house seemed to have passed muster. The next she saw him was when she went out to her garden to cut flowers for the table and he was striding across the courtyard with Billy Weston in tow, firing off instructions to Lindblom, the landscaper, and his foreman, Thomas Brunker (a big-bellied man with a corona of white hair who always gave her a sour look, as if he disapproved of her, and so much the worse for him because she was the mistress of this house now and she was here to stay). “Dinner in ten minutes, Frank,” she sang out, and he smiled and waved and went on round the corner, never breaking stride.

When they finally did sit down to dinner she saw that he seemed to have lost weight — fretting over the loose ends at Midway, sleeping irregularly and to all appearances dining on the fly or not at all — but he tucked into everything Carleton brought out of the kitchen on the silver tray he held high over one shoulder and manipulated with a flourish that managed to be neither subservient nor showy, but just precisely right. Gertrude surpassed herself with the cuisine, serving up one of her spicy stews (“ ‘Hotter de day, hotter de spice,’ dat what my mama say. ‘You got to sweat to cool off ’ ”), with cornbread, cucumber salad and mint yogurt made from a culture she’d brought with her from Barbados via Chicago, fresh-picked melon and a berry tart. The next day she spent the whole morning preparing a picnic lunch, which Carleton, ever proper in his white jacket, served them on blankets down by the lake. Frank was enraptured, declaring the day a holiday from work and inviting all his employees, right on down to the field hands, to join in the festivities. The plates circulated. Carleton went up and down the hill a dozen times and every time he came back the platter was laden and everybody agreed that they’d never tasted better fried chicken or potato salad or pork chops and greens. They were lying there on their blankets, content, when one of the men pulled out a mouth organ and Frank started the singing and before anyone knew it the stars were showing overhead.