What To Keep

“Right,” I say, but feel overwhelmed. “How much do you think this is gonna cost?”

“’Bout eight hundred dollars.”

“Oh, God!”

A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead into my right eye, and I blink, wipe at it, know I’m smearing my mascara.

“Plaster dust gets into everything and there’s nothing you can do about that. Make sure whoever does the job puts Visqueen up.”

“Are you sure I can’t buy some Lysol and wipe down the wall? I’ll seal the window.”

“No. When it’s gone this far, you can’t. It’s like the silent killer of walls.”

“Shit. The silent killer, ha-ha.”

“Just sign on the line.”

I take the blue pen and clipboard that says Guilford County and look at the small-print form. It’s smudged with Clay’s sweat, now mine. “There’s no other way?”

Clay looks at me like I might be trying to bribe him. I laugh.

“Something funny?”

I study the paper. “Am I signing my life away?”

He straightens a little. His face is red, more sweaty than mine. I changed into shorts and T-shirt after Ron left, thank God, but now they’re sticking to my skin. As soon as Clay is gone I’m going to open windows, drink some water.

“Your signature acknowledges you’re aware of this infraction and that you’ll be in compliance before you sell.”

“Right. And what if I’m not?”

His eyebrow rises. “County can sue you.”

“Guess I won’t go there.” I write my name, wish I would have asked the judge who granted me my quickie divorce to change my name back to one I can stand.

“Okay, that’s about all. When you get the repairs done, give me a call.” He hands me a copy of the paper I’ve just signed, takes back his pen and points to a phone number in the right-hand corner. “If I’m not there just leave a message.”

I nod, walk to the edge of the doorway and look back. Clay is still writing. The room is empty except for a four-poster bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket. I look at the wall and realize I could easily begin to hate this house. He finishes, clips his pen in his shirt pocket, holds the clipboard like a football and walks toward the door.

“Don’t feel bad about the mildew. Lots of folks have problems and don’t even know about them.”

“Lucky them.”

Hemsley House

Greensville, NC

March 1861

I am to marry James Alexander in three days!

Father insists we not wait. He stated clearly he believes Mr. Alexander to be the right choice. Thankfully, Father didn’t mention I have not had any other proposals and that is why I am expected to marry James Alexander.

When my father announced what he wanted for me, I stamped my foot and fussed. Mama ushered me to my room, and informed me I will behave like a lady and a dutiful daughter. I did not tell her I don’t want a “lord and master” to honor and obey, for I knew then as I know now, my words would not change her or Father’s mind.

More than anything my parents want their only daughter to be a wife. As my father clearly stated, he and my brother do not need an old maid in this house and on their hands.

Months back, when I arrived at the age of eighteen, I heard my parents discussing with much trepidation that their eldest would not find a husband if she remained so quiet.

I am not quiet! I am just not very social. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I do not like to go to parties like other girls. I have always liked to read, write letters, write in my diary. My parents do not believe this behavior is good for their aging daughter.

“Who will marry her?” they whispered to each other in not so gentle whispers.

Then, three days ago after Mr. Alexander asked for my hand, they decided I should accept his proposal. The next day, when neither would listen to me, I started sobbing. I ran up to my room, stood by the window and thought about leaping to the ground. Maybe my bones would break, then they would listen.

I imagined my body drifting out the window, lifting up into the air then plunging through the warm Carolina sunshine, like a bird in flight. I felt the air on my face, the breeze fanning my ankles as I leaned out farther.

Suddenly I knew I could not smash myself on the ground. However, I remained by the window until the sky was silvery and sugar-strewn with moonlight.

After Father had gone to bed, Mama came to see me. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight. Her fingers touched my hairline, smoothed it back from my temples. She spoke softly, claiming that it would be much easier on all of us if I accepted my fate. Father was doing what was best for me, and I needed to trust in him and the Lord.

I seized her hand and asked if she could do what I had to do, marry someone she wasn’t sure she loved, someone she hardly knew. She tried to laugh, then breathed in deeply, brought her hand to her throat.

“Charlotte, don’t make yourself weak trying to be happy. If you do not hate Mr. Alexander, you might love him one day, like I do your father.”

I do admire Mr. Alexander. We became acquainted a year ago, a month after he moved to Greensville. He always has a kind look about him. He told me he likes to read history books, then he smiled a nice smile. And his laughter brought to mind the large church bell ringing across Greensville on a Sunday morning.

Yet my heart never pounds hard in my chest like I heard other girls say their hearts do when they are around someone they are fond of. I know I do not love him.

Will I ever love him? I do not know. Mama told me not to worry about married love, it will surely find me. And as long as I’m a good wife to Mr. Alexander, that is all that matters.

In the past few weeks, Mama has schooled me on how to handle the servants, how to plan meals and tell the cook what to prepare. All the general ways to keep a home. She also whispered in my ear there are certain other obligations I will have as a wife. Then suddenly she pulled back, her round face pale as a magnolia blossom, her lips flat against each other. She fanned herself with her hand.

“You’ll find out soon enough, oh, Heavenly Father!”

Soon she left my side, marched down the stairs and called in a high-pitched voice for her servant, Isabell. I know the obligations she whispered are what the other, more sophisticated girls giggle about—the duty of a wife. Some say these duties are very uncomfortable.

Night after night, I sit by my window and wonder how I will feel when my life as a—

Mama came in and I hid this book in the folds of my skirt. She would be very upset to know I’ve been writing before my wedding. Many, along with Father, believe writing leads to worry for young ladies.

I would think she would be desolate that Mr. Alexander is building a home miles from town and I will live so far away. When I hint at these fears, Mama shakes her head and claims I am a true Southern girl, one who is too attached to her family and someday I will be happy and not want to come home.

This morning Mama found me sitting by the window, tears dried upon my cheeks. She said very sternly that I must grow up and start a family of my own because it will soon be time to have babies. I feel like cloth being torn and readied for a wedding dress. I pray James Alexander is a patient man, for he will have to be with his new bride. He will need years of tolerance, because it is difficult for me to imagine myself old and stooped over and still his wife with adult children, if the Lord sees fit to give us their souls.

I do not understand fate, my life, and said so to Mama. She told me I think too much for a young woman. I should trust in Father’s decision. The Lord’s purpose is to make me a wife—what I was born for. Try as hard as I might, I do not believe this. Yet, I am now resolved that in three days, Mr. Alexander will be my lord and master for eternity. Tonight as I contemplate giving up everything that is familiar, I do not believe eighteen is so very old.

CHAPTER 3