Free The Hired Girl by Laura Amy Schlitz Page B

was worse — easing the scissor blade under the threads and tugging them out. The scabs held on to the threads, but the pain wasn’t as bad as I expected; it was more the idea of the thing, and only one scab broke open. The whole operation lasted only a few minutes, but by the time I was done, I was queasy and perspiring.
    I wiped the scissors clean and replaced them in Ma’s basket. There was one more thing I wanted. I tiptoed into Father’s room and took Ma’s crucifix off the wall. Ma brought it with her when she married Father, and it’s hung over their bed for twenty-three years. Of course Father was pious when Ma married him, but he was Methodist-pious, not Catholic-pious. Methodists don’t set store by crucifixes; they prefer crosses without anyone on them. I know in the days to come I’ll be needing Jesus to watch over me, so I took Him and wrapped Him in my red flannel petticoat.
    After that, I was ready. I walked barefoot down the lane — my shoes and stockings were in the bucket. That was the strangest part of today — gracious, it was only this morning! — walking down the hill, in plain sight of the men, and knowing that I was leaving forever. I’d announced at breakfast that I meant to spend the day picking blackberries. (The berries are ripe, too, which is another sign from God that I’m leaving home at the right time.)
    I tried to walk as if it was just an ordinary day, as if my buckets were empty. I daren’t pause to look my last on the home of my childhood. A lot of it I didn’t mind leaving — the privy that I’ve cleaned a thousand times, and the chicken house, and that irritating rosebush that’s infested with something that gnarls the roses. But I felt a little sad leaving the chickens, even if they are the most boring chickens in the world. And I felt real regret about leaving my tomato plants. It looks like there’s going to be a fine crop this year.
    The saddest part was walking past the clothesline — isn’t that queer? But as I walked past it, I had this sudden picture in my mind of Ma and me taking the clothes off the line. I remember us folding sheets. We’d stand apart, our arms moving like windmills, perfectly in rhythm. Then we’d walk toward each other with our arms over our heads, so that the sheet wouldn’t touch the ground. It was almost like a dance, and the sheets smelled good after a day in the sun, and we were always happy, because taking the clothes off the line meant the laundry was done for the week.
    When I came to the blackberry thicket, I went straight into it, with the thorns scratching my skin. Once I was hidden from sight, I put on my shoes and stockings and took the suitcase out of the bucket and tried to bash it back into shape. It didn’t look very good, but I packed everything inside it and fastened it with a piece of string. I took the letter I’d written for Father and placed it inside the bucket, with a stone to hold it down.
    It was a very aggravating letter. I meant it to be, because I don’t want Father coming after me. I told him I was going to stay with Great-Aunt Alma in Lancaster. I never thought I should be grateful to have such a disagreeable relation, but I
am
grateful, because Father hates Great-Aunt Alma and won’t want to follow me to her house. Great-Aunt Alma always says that Ma married beneath herself. She and Father had words on Ma’s wedding day and haven’t spoken since.
    The way I reckon it, the men will come in around noon, and there won’t be any dinner waiting for them. Father will be furious, but he won’t want to waste time looking for me; he’ll want to get the hay in. The boys will make a nasty mess in the kitchen, fixing their own dinner, but this time I won’t have to clean it up. Nobody will find my letter until suppertime, and they’ll be too tired from haying to follow me to Lancaster.
    They might not come after me at all. Father knows that Great-Aunt Alma is so horrid that nobody in her right mind could