The Hired Girl by Laura Amy Schlitz Read Free Book Online Page A

added bacon, because Father likes peas with bacon. I made light biscuits — Father prefers bread, but we have rye bread fresh from yesterday, and the boys and I like biscuits. I sliced the bread and put out butter and honey and cherry preserves and pickles. The whole time I was working, I was planning what I’d say to Father when I asked for the egg money. By the time the dinner was cooked, I’d lost my appetite, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine Father saying yes to me. Every time he said no — in my imagination, that is — he said it more cruelly. I was afraid that when the time came to ask, I wouldn’t dare.
    But I did dare. By the time the men came in, the kitchen smelled like heaven. The crust on the pie couldn’t have been bettered. It was golden and flaky and tempting looking, and there were one or two places where the gravy oozed through and made rich-looking puddles on the crust. I saw the boys’ faces when they looked at it. Father didn’t say anything but sat right down to eat. He didn’t even take off his hat until he’d had a helping of pie.
    I let them eat. As I said, I didn’t have much appetite, but I tasted the pie and worried down a biscuit with cherry preserves. It was a good dinner, and the men were silent as they ate. I didn’t speak. I was busy rehearsing what I was going to say. I knew it wouldn’t be wise to be too brash.
    But I wasn’t going to be meeching, either. And I was going to ask
today;
I wasn’t going to put it off. I waited until almost all the food was gone. Then I sat up straight and used my most ladylike voice. I began, “Father —”
    At first he didn’t look up. He was buttering the last slice of bread. Father always folds his bread in thirds and crushes it in his fist. Then he eats it like a stalk of celery, in great bites. I think I’d die if Miss Chandler ever saw the way he eats. When he took the second bite, he fixed his eyes on mine, and I felt a thrill pass through me, because it was now or never.
    And all at once I wasn’t scared anymore. No, that’s not true; I
was
scared, but I wasn’t scared in the same way. Instead of being scared stiff, I was scared the way I used to feel when I was going downhill on a toboggan, too fast. It was a jittery, active, mettlesome kind of scared.
    “Father,” I said calmly, “the other day, you said I wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. I’ve been thinking on that, and I think you’re right. And you said I was needed to do the women’s work, and I’m thinking that’s pretty near to calling me a woman.” It didn’t sound as forceful as I’d hoped, but I was on that toboggan and I kept going. “So, since my work is needed, and I take care of the chickens, I think I ought to have the egg money. That’s what Ma had.”
    There was silence after I spoke. Father took another mouthful of bread. He looked as if his whole mind was taken up with chewing, but I knew that wasn’t so. It came to me — I’d never thought of this before — that Father isn’t quick. He knew he wanted to deny me, but he lacked the words. So he chewed slowly, with his eyes gazing straight ahead as if I wasn’t there.
    I became aware that the boys were staring. Well, not Matthew, because he was dragging his fourth biscuit in circles around the pie dish, dredging up the gravy. But Mark had stopped chewing and stared at me, bemused. Luke leaned forward with his forearms on the table. I don’t rightly know how to describe the look on Luke’s face. His eyes were alert, as if he was working a sum in mental arithmetic. At the same time, I almost felt as if he admired me.
    That’s when I recalled that Luke and Mark never have any money, either. They’re as penniless as I am. Father keeps the money in a big stone jar on top of the kitchen dresser. He and Matthew can dip into it whenever they like. But Mark and Luke have to ask permission to take money from the jar, and if Father says yes, they have to write on a piece of paper