I’m heading home for the day, pulling my sweater on, grabbing my purse, when Mr. Evans comes into the kitchen holding a single tulip in his fumbling fingers.
Clearing his throat a couple of time, he finally says, “For you, Ms. Miriam.”
I’m speechless, no one’s ever given me flowers before. I take the pretty yellow tulip, hold it to my nose, studying Mr. Evans through my lashes. He’s shuffling his feet, cheeks ruddy with anxiety.
I look around the kitchen, Maddy, the cook, frosting a chocolate cake at the counter, her husband, Bertrand, the butler, polishing the silver. They pretend they aren’t listening, but I know their ears are burning for the gossip. I don’t mind, Maddy and Bertrand are kind, always sneaking leftover food for Corky and I.
“Harry,” I say a little breathlessly, “Thank you, it’s beautiful, yellow’s my favorite color.”
Harry finally meets my eyes, smiling, a dimple flashing, his dark eyes sparkling. “The yellow sweater you wear, it makes your skin glow.”
My eyes flare in surprise, Harry’s gaze stays steady on mine, the sounds of the kitchen falling away. “I thought the flowers matched your hair too, sunny and bright.”
Ms. Maddy sighs, her hand over her heart, a dreamy look on her round, heat flushed face. I sigh too, I’m not used to this kind of sweet attention. “Thank you,” I hesitate only a second before boldly saying, “Do you want to walk with me for a bit?”
He inclines his head, a laugh escaping, “There’s nothing I’d like more, Miriam.”
My name rolling off his tongue has my heart skipping a beat. Ms. Maddy squeezes her hands together in happiness, nodding at me in encouragement, Bertrand sending me a wink.
All of this is missed by Harry, whose gathering up his satchel stuffed full of books. He opens the kitchen door, the fall air wafting in, the scent of dried leaves pungent. “Shall we?”
He offers me his arm which I gladly accept. It feels so wonderful having a man close to me, feel his strong arm beneath my fingers. He smells of ink, books, and something woodsy, like sage perhaps.
The 3 blocks it takes to walk home, we talk. We talk about everything that comes to mind. My husband dying, Corky.
He tells me how coming to America was a dream of his, wanting to travel west to Montana, become a teacher in a rural town, build a home, start a life. “With the market crash, my dreams of heading west crashed too.” Harry smiles brightly, “Well, put on hold is all, I’m still planning on going. I want children of all backgrounds to know they can learn that they can become anything they set their minds to. I’m tutoring the Carmichael children for now to save up money for my new adventure.”
He turns to me, pulling us to a stop on the sidewalk, a gentle breeze whispering, stirring the leaves, the sun kissing our skin, “And what are your dreams, Miriam?”
I frown a bit at the question, “I’m not sure, I try not to think too much on those kinds of things. I don’t want to be a maid forever, I want Corky to have a good life, with a yard to run and play in, a room of his own to sleep in,” I smooth a fingertip over the tulip, smile softly, “I want Corky to go to school, to know he can rise above his station…” I pause, “Really, forget there are stations, just to be able to live the life he wants. A good life, a healthy life.” I shake my head, shrug my shoulders, “It’s too much to hope for, I know.”
“No, no it isn’t,” the excitement in his eyes is contagious, “You can always hope and want for something better.” He pulls my arm through his as we continue walking, whistling a tune as if the stench of the city, the ugliness, the need surrounding us isn’t there.
YOU ARE READING
On The Other Side
Historical FictionImmigrating from Scotland, her husband passing away suddenly on their crossing to America, a pregnant Claire Birrell and her daughter Aggie try to carve out a life for themselves in New York during the Great Depression. Can Claire find courage, hope...
