Page 23 of Junie
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as Violet returns from church, she screams, so loudly Junie’s certain she’ll blow a lung. The day becomes a whirlwind of preparation. Junie rescues Violet’s dusty gowns from storage, squashes trunks closed, and scrubs and plucks Violet until she is certain her pale skin will fall off. Muh nags Junie into taking her nice dress along, in addition to her maid’s uniform, in case the Taylors expect a different style of dress for their help. By the time Junie drags the first of Violet’s trunks to the carriage at dawn the next morning, her mind is so foggy that she forgets Caleb will be there to receive them.
“Let me get that,” he says. His polite and formal tone stings. Junie’s hand brushes against his as he takes the trunk from her. He snatches it away, as if he’s touched the handle of a pan fresh from the fire.
He might as well have slapped her across the cheek.
“I have two more upstairs for Miss McQueen, plus one for Miss Taylor,” she says.
“Of course. Any of them awake yet?”
“Not one I’ve seen,” says Junie. “Think it would take a prince’s kiss to wake Violet this early.”
Caleb smiles weakly, then looks back at the trunks. “You best be on, then.”
Junie nods. She rushes back into the house, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She was a fool to think there was something more.
Preparing the white folks feels like herding cats, and by the time Junie sits on the rumble seat at the back of the carriage, the only thing keeping her awake is the cold. Sandwiched next to one of Violet’s trunks, Junie bundles herself in her shawl. Even with the cold, she breathes a sigh of relief that the front seat is too small for anyone but Caleb.
Caleb whips the horses to a trot, and they bump down Bellereine Road as the McQueens, Granddaddy, Muh, Auntie, and Bess send them off with waves. Her family turns to pinpricks on the icy landscape until the grounds disappear. When they get to Main Street, a block or two composed of a general store, a bank, and a couple of tied-up horses a few miles off from Bellereine, the road widens from a one-lane path, and other carriages start to appear alongside them. Her skin prickles with excitement as the town center transforms into the open road. This is the farthest she has ever been from home.
The road to Montgomery meanders, starting at first with woods on either side until the trees begin to disappear, giving way to infinite cotton fields, far larger than any Junie has seen at Bellereine. Would Wordsworth or Coleridge see the sublime in those fields? The impossibility of anyone managing to care for something so vast outweighs any potential for beauty in Junie’s mind.
There are worse places to be and worse things to do. Minnie’s words from years ago ring in her memory. The monotony of endless white rows lulls Junie into a much-needed sleep.
Junie has heard stories about Montgomery all her life, but none of them prepared her for the trot of horses and screeching of steamboats when she opens her eyes. White and Black women glide along the sidewalks as the sound of men bartering and bantering echoes around each of the pointed street corners. Children run through the streets, weaving between stagecoaches to grab their toys off the road. Carriages kick up dust that gets into Junie’s eyes, forcing her to rub away the sting. In the distance, men call out numbers and barter in what Junie assumes must be a street game.
Caleb turns the carriage away from the bustling downtown and heads downhill into a quieter area, where miniature grand houses with wraparound porches and live oaks sit nestled together like the scales on a snake’s back. The carriage slows in front of a sky-blue, two-story house on the corner, with dogwood trees and crepe myrtles in the front yard. A man whose body seems to take the full size of the doorframe stands on the porch, a diminutive blond woman wrapped in a cerulean shawl by his side. They are flanked by two Negroes carrying trays of drinks, the same way Junie had the day the Taylors arrived at Bellereine. The carriage pulls to a stop, and Caleb hops down to open the door. Junie scoots off the back seat, as Mr. Taylor helps Violet and Miss Taylor out of the carriage.
“Is this what these people call a city?” Miss Taylor says.
“This ain’t a city to you?” Violet says.
“Psh,” Miss Taylor says, flicking open her fan despite the cold weather. “If you took that place we just rode through and copied it over forty times, I don’t think it would be half of New Orleans.”
“Don’t mind my sister there, Miss McQueen. She’s known to have an awful sour demeanor when she hasn’t gotten her proper beauty rest.” Mr. Taylor takes Violet by the hands, and Junie catches a brief hint of annoyance on her face before it mellows back to demureness. The white folks walk ahead toward the house, bowing and curtsying to greet their hosts. Junie and Caleb hover back by the carriage, watching from afar.
“I think I’m gonna hate Montgomery,” Junie says.
“That’s awful prejudice, Delilah June. You ought to give it a proper chance to surprise you first,” Caleb replies. “Now stop hanging around and get some of those trunks.”
Delilah June. He hasn’t called her that since he came back.
—
“Mr. taylor, you’re awful close to slicing straight through your finger,” Aunt Taylor comments as her husband hacks through the duck’s backbone. Junie winces at how close the old man’s thumb is to his knife. Aunt Taylor tilts her head toward him, flashing her crystalline blue eyes. Her cheeks are full and rosy, denoting a sort of youth that Junie is surprised to see in the wife of such an old man.
“Now, Mrs. Taylor, don’t start,” Uncle Taylor comments, preparing the knife for its first cut.
“Let Cecil take care of it, dear,” she says, inclining her head toward the Black man standing in the corner of the dining room next to Caleb. Uncle Taylor continues anyway and finally manages to cut through the carcass in one stroke. The table applauds. Cecil steps in behind, taking the bird off to the cookhouse to be fully carved.
“ Très bon, Mr. Taylor!” Violet says with an enthusiasm that makes Junie want to roll her eyes. She catches a half-smile on Caleb’s face from across the room.
“See there, your old uncle has a few tricks left in him,” he says to the two younger Taylors with a satisfied grin, lowering himself into his seat at the head of the mahogany dining table. His hand quivers as he pours himself a glass of water. The table and buffet seem almost identical to the deep brown set at Bellereine, and the Persian rug seems only different in its color. The room even has a gargantuan ugly portrait of an old man, who Junie assumes is another Mr. Taylor.
Another Toadface.
Cecil returns with the duck, broken into parts and served with roasted carrots, onions, and gravy. He squeezes the platter in among the immensity of dishes: gratin dauphinois topped with bacon that bubbles over the edges of the pan, puff pastries slathered with liver paté and raw egg yolks, onion soup crusted with melted cheese and toast, and fat slices of salted ham topped with buttery fried apples. Violet ogles the food as Aunt Taylor bends her head to pray. All follow but Violet, who, after realizing her mistake, quickly bows her head.
The prayer goes on so long that by the time Uncle Taylor says “Amen,” Junie is certain their food will be ice cold. Violet heaps her plate with food, while Uncle Taylor and Aunt Taylor take sparse selections from the table, only covering half of their dinner plates.
“I suppose you young folks are looking forward to the Yule Ball tomorrow,” Aunt Taylor says, slicing her puff pastry into small bits on her plate.
“Oh yes, I’m quite looking forward to it,” Violet says, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
“Miss McQueen, tell me, do they have many balls and dances of that sort in your county?”
“I must admit, I haven’t been to one,” Violet responds, taking a bite of her duck.
“Didn’t we attend something near Lowndesboro last year at the Lamott House?” Uncle Taylor asks his wife.
“Oh yes, that is true. Miss McQueen, your family must have attended that event last year. Everyone in Alabama was there.”
“I can’t say I was.”
“So you’re not out yet, then?” Aunt Taylor puts down her fork.
“Not officially, I suppose.”
“How old are you, Miss McQueen?”
“I’ll be eighteen in May.”
“Well, my stars, you’re more than old enough to be in attendance at those sorts of events. What are your mother and father doing keeping a beautiful lady like you locked away from society?” Uncle Taylor says.
“Now, Mr. Taylor, we ought not to speak about Mr. and Mrs. McQueen. I’m sure they have their reasons,” Aunt Taylor says.
“Yes, this is true of course, my apologies. I’m sure my nephew and niece here can tell you my tongue gets away from me. We’re delighted to have you here with us, Miss McQueen.”
“Yes, I’m so honored to be brought along. It must be exciting for y’all to get into the city, as well. How often do you leave your home in Selma?”
“Well, we keep our home here for the holiday season, of course, to attend the events and such. We normally summer elsewhere, get away from the fevers here in Alabama, but we always return to Selma for the planting and harvesting season,” Uncle Taylor says.
“Yes, Uncle has always stressed the importance of keeping a close eye on things during those critical seasons,” Mr. Taylor adds.
“Well, of course! Having a good overseer is only half the battle, ain’t it? Got to keep a close eye on those Negroes, especially when things are so important. Let them be their lazy selves the rest of the year, harvest is the time for work! I’m sure your father must believe something similar, too, Miss McQueen.”
“My father doesn’t talk much about the trade.” Violet wiggles in her chair.
“As he shouldn’t. It’s just not right to talk of the indelicacies of business among ladies. Tell us more about the ball. What do you intend to wear?” Aunt Taylor asks.
“I must have packed every dress I own!”
“Every dress you own? In just three cases? I don’t believe it,” Aunt Taylor says with a laugh.
“I’m sure you’ll be just lovely in anything you wear, Miss McQueen,” the younger Mr. Taylor adds. “It’s set to be a capital evening, I believe. I imagine even my sister here will have a smile on her face.”
“Now, Beau, leave Beatrix alone. Beatrix, I know we can’t compete with the society of France, but I believe you’ll have a lovely time, as well,” Uncle Taylor says.
“Thank you, Uncle, that’s hopeful of you,” Miss Taylor says, swirling her water in her glass as though she hopes it will turn to wine.
“Sour as a green plum,” Beau adds.
“I have heard y’all won’t be the only ones celebrating tomorrow night,” Aunt Taylor says, looking around at the perimeter of servants. “The Negroes are having a ball themselves. All the society in town has given them the evening off to join in. It’s quite an affair from what I understand, formal dress required, with music and dancing.”
“Well, that does sound diverting, doesn’t it? Cecil, do you and the others intend to go?” Uncle Taylor asks.
“We’d planned to, sir, yes, if that’s all right with you,” Cecil says.
“Of course! We wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
“Well then, Caleb, you’re more than welcome to go, as well,” Mr. Taylor adds.
“And, Junie,” Violet exclaims, turning around in her seat, “you must go!”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Taylor, but I’m not sure I would—” Caleb starts.
“Nonsense! You could play your music for a whole new audience. I insist you attend and take the evening off. Besides, how would it look if our servants were the only ones not in attendance?”
“What say you, Junie?” Violet says. She leans on the back of her chair like a child.
“Miss McQueen, I’m afraid I don’t have anything to wear for that sort of occasion,” Junie says.
“Junie, I can’t possibly wear all those dresses we packed. You’ll wear one of mine!” Violet exclaims.
Miss Taylor nudges Violet under the table. Miss Taylor tilts her head toward Caleb, who is looking at his feet.
“That is, Junie, if you’d like to attend,” Violet adds. “You will have the evening off either way, but I’d hate for you to lose an evening of fun over something as silly as a dress.”
Caleb raises his gaze, his warm brown eyes meeting Junie’s. Electricity sparks in her belly.
“I’d like to go, Miss McQueen,” Junie states, the words out of her mouth before she can think them through. “I’d like to go very much.”