Page 24 of Junie

Chapter Twenty-Four

By the time Junie wakes the next morning on the velvet chaise in Violet’s room, the sun has risen, shining frosty light over the cream-colored walls. Junie does her best to get ready without waking Violet, stoking the fire and tiptoeing away to gather water. By the time she comes back with a pitcher, Violet is sitting awake, propped on the corner of the robin’s-egg-blue daybed reading.

“There you are. I hardly slept a wink, Junebug.”

“Didn’t seem that way from what I heard,” Junie says, before doing her best impression of Violet’s snore. Violet gasps before throwing a tasseled, dusty-pink pillow at her.

“You’re one to talk. Every time I woke up you were making a sound like a steam engine!”

Junie laughs and tosses the pillow back.

“Why’d you sleep so bad?” she says, sitting on the edge of Violet’s bed.

“Well, first off, this bed’s harder than a haystack. Second, did you hear the way they were talking about this ball? About me? I felt like a regular hayseed.”

“I try not to listen to y’all’s conversations.”

“Oh, that’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

“Violet!”

“What? Nobody’s here but you to hear my foul mouth. Anyway, I need help, Junie.”

“What sort of help?”

“Dancing help! Miss Taylor was lovely to try and teach me a few of the newest steps, but I must say I ain’t got them yet. I’d just be mortified to get them wrong in front of such a prim old lot.”

“I’m no dancer.”

“And I am? Besides, you’re going to a ball tonight, too, so we both might as well learn. We’re surrounded by strangers here, all we have is each other. C’mon, I’ll lead and you follow.”

Violet jumps off the bed and bows to Junie. Junie eyes her bare feet nervously.

“You’re meant to curtsy of course. To accept!”

“What if I don’t accept?” Junie says. Violet reaches over and pinches her arm. Junie jumps back with a squeal.

“Stop being fresh!”

“There must be some rule for refusing dances from crabs dressed as young ladies.”

“Oh, Junie, c’mon.”

“Fine then,” Junie says with a dramatic curtsy.

“Lovely, we’ll practice a waltz first,” Violet says. She puts her hand on Junie’s waist and grasps Junie’s right hand.

“Now, you go and put your left hand on my shoulder,” Violet says.

“Are you sure you’re meant to lead when I’m the tall one?” Junie asks.

“Yes, because I know what we’re doing. Now just use that imagination of yours and pretend I’m some handsome fellow who comes to swoop you into his arms for a swirl around the room. But first, push your shoulders back as far as they go and stick your bosom out.”

“Violet!”

“What? All of this is an excuse to show your figure off around the room, anyway.”

Junie steadies herself, pushing her shoulders back until she’s sure she’ll topple over.

“Good, now soften your wrist. You want to look like you’ve never lifted anything heavier than a coupe of champagne in your whole life.”

Junie relaxes her wrists with a laugh.

“See, Miss Taylor says this dance is all about the counting. You step with me now, see? One, two, three…” Violet takes a step forward, pushing Junie backward. Junie stumbles at first but catches herself as Violet goes for her second step. “One, two, three; one, two, three; Mary Mother of Christ, Junie, I think we’re waltzing!”

“Is this all we got to do? Count to three and keep from falling with all the spinning?” Junie asks as she and Violet twirl away from the bed toward the armoire on the other side.

“I believe so. And we’ve got to worry about seeming proper and attractive and making all the right conversation. Oh, and we can’t sweat a drop or breathe any louder than a field mouse.”

“What’s the right conversation?”

“Oh you know, nothing that shows you have more than half a brain. All those boys care about is making sure we think they’re stronger than Hercules and even more handsome. No sense trying to make much more conversation beyond that.”

“Is that what you intend to talk to Mr. Taylor about, then?” Junie asks.

“Well, Mr. Taylor at least has some experience with the arts. He’s seen operas and such. So, that’s always something to talk about.”

The bell rings downstairs, signaling the start of breakfast.

“Thank goodness,” Junie says.

“Oh, don’t get too comfortable yet. We’ll be practicing the polka after breakfast, then we’ll of course need to get ready. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me all day,” Violet says. She reaches onto her tiptoes to kiss Junie’s cheek.

—

Violet keeps her word. They spend the afternoon together, practicing the footwork for all the important dances until both their heads spin with giggly delight.

As Violet is tucked in for her midafternoon nap, Junie unearths the gowns, hanging each one to ensure they are wrinkle-free and presentable. She runs her fingers over each fabric. The first is a chartreuse-green taffeta gown, silky fabric glistening in the afternoon sun. Junie had selected it based on the color; although a bit strong, it will stand in lovely contrast to Violet’s red hair. The balloon sleeves, each decorated with small white roses, hang low on the arms to show the shoulders and décolletage. The next is a pale pink with puffed sleeves and layers of tulle and lace along the bottom, decorated with a ruby-red ribbon and even more white tulle. The dress is hideous, but it is the sort of thing Violet’s mother would expect her to wear.

The last is goldenrod yellow, the color of the first fallen leaves in autumn. It has the same low neckline and fitted bodice as the green dress, but in place of the roses, it has simple scarlet-red sleeves. It is the skirt that struck Junie’s eye—embroidered from waist to train in a print of blooming dogwood branches. Her grandmother stitched each white bloom over the mustard-toned fabric for almost a year. When it was finished, Junie did not think another dress its equal, yet Violet has never worn it before. She runs her hand over the embossed detailing of the flowers, feeling the electricity run through her fingers.

“You must wear it.”

Junie jumps, stepping back from the dress.

“I can’t wear this.”

“You mean to wear that old thing you wear on Sundays?” Violet says, stepping out of her bed and stretching before walking toward the dresses. “See, that just won’t do, Junebug. The only thing that will do is this yellow dress here.”

Junie rubs the gown’s satin sleeve between her fingers.

“Thank you, Vi.”

“And that isn’t the only thing. See, this evening, it is my turn to get you ready, just this once.”

“Now, Violet. This ball is important for you, and we’ve come all this way.”

“I will have other balls, Junie. And I have a feeling this ball could be awfully important for you . Besides, maybe this could be my chance to get some revenge for all those times you pulled my corset extra tight.”

The girls start their work, alternating scrubbing and polishing each other in the bath before putting on their chemises. Junie sits in front of the mirror, and begins slowly undoing her six twisted braids with a comb. Her hair falls into asymmetrical curls and waves on her back.

“By God, Junie, why do you keep this hidden all the time?” Violet asks. “You ought to do one of those braided styles you do on me,” she says, handing Junie her comb.

“I feel like Cinderella must’ve felt, getting ready like this.”

“Hopefully I ain’t an evil stepsister,” Violet says, laughing as she combs her own hair.

There’s a pause.

“If you’re Cinderella, does that mean you have a dashing prince, then?” Violet asks.

Junie’s cheeks warm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, Junie. I can understand you being all shy with Miss Taylor around, but not around me! We don’t keep secrets like that. Now tell.”

“I’m…I’m fond of someone, I suppose,” she says.

“Oh my stars, it’s Caleb, ain’t it?”

Junie’s silence all but confirms it.

“Bea was right,” Violet crows. “Well, go on, then!”

“But, he ain’t fond of me,” Junie mumbles.

“ Pourquoi? How could he not be bewitched mind, body, and soul by you?”

“I suppose that’s just the way it is, ain’t it?”

“Well, once you put that dress on tonight, I have a feeling something might change. And if he don’t see you for the beauty you are, he’s a damn fool, and you can tell him I said so.”

“Are you ready for your night with your dashing prince, then?” Junie says. Violet looks in the mirror at Junie’s reflection. She drops her hands by her sides for a moment, then sighs, her cheeks turning red.

“Vi, what is it?” Junie says, turning around, her hair half-pinned.

“It’s nothing,” Violet says, her lip quivering.

“Violet?”

“No, no, shit!” Violet says, tossing her comb to the floor. “It ain’t nothing, it ain’t and you can tell it ain’t.”

“If something’s wrong, you can tell me, Vi.”

“Oh, I do want to tell you, Junebug. I just, I ain’t said nothing because, well…but I shouldn’t be keeping secrets. I just went and said I hate secrets and here I am keeping one from you, and—”

“Has Mr. Taylor done something?”

“Oh, Mr. Taylor, I hate to even hear the name,” Violet says through tears.

“You what?” Junie’s heart races as her voice slows. “But, the letters, the visits, this whole trip. You don’t even love him?”

“Of course I don’t love him,” Violet says, slumping back down onto the daybed. “He’s boorish and dull, just like every other man around here.”

“Then, is it like your mother said? You’d marry him for the farm? For the money?”

“You think I give a devil about that place?” Violet says, looking into her lap. “I don’t care if it burns to the ground.”

“Then why pretend?”

“Because,” Violet says, pulling the charm on her necklace back and forth on the chain. “I’ve fallen for somebody else.”

Junie wrinkles her brow, meeting Violet’s eyes in the mirror. “Does Mr. Taylor have some friend or—”

“Junie. Listen. Somebody else with Mr. Taylor.”

Junie tilts her head in confusion. But the only other person with Mr. Taylor is—

Suddenly, the broken pieces fit together.

The hands under the table. The giggles in the garden. The nights practicing French and reading Flaubert. Of course. It was never Mr. Taylor who Violet was in love with.

It was Miss Taylor all along.

Junie gapes. “And you…”

“Love her? Yes, I love her, Junie. And this is the only way. This show, it’s the only way we have.” Tears roll down Violet’s cheeks. She tucks into a ball, hugging her knees into her chest.

Junie wraps her arms around her, and Violet turns, sobbing onto her shoulder.

“I’m happy for you,” Junie says into her ear.

“You are?” Violet says, pulling back.

“Yes, I am happy when you’re happy, my dear friend,” Junie says, meaning the words from somewhere deep within her soul, despite what it might mean for her own future.

“And you don’t believe it’s improper? Or sinful?”

“What was it that Jane Eyre said? ‘I would always rather be happy than dignified.’?”

“You know I like Wuthering Heights better. ‘ Whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same. ’?”

Junie smiles.

“You know I want that for you, too? To have the greatest happiness and love?” Violet says. “And that is why we must have this ball!” She stands back, wiping the tearstains off her cheeks. “And I utterly refuse to send you into the world with half-done hair. Now sit before I catch an ill temper again.”

Junie complies, even as their work feels trivial in comparison to what Violet has just revealed. Getting into their dresses takes at least a half hour; after the pulling, hoisting, and hooking of what feels like a never-ending pile of fabrics, the girls are ready to debut. The green suits Violet just as well as Junie imagined it would, bringing out the blue of her eyes and the auburn of her hair. Violet pinches her cheeks repeatedly and bites her lips. She spritzes herself in a cloud of perfume before spraying a bit on Junie’s shoulders. Junie coughs at the smell, her abdomen pushing against Violet’s whalebone corset, cinched around her waist.

“No coughing,” Violet says. “You can’t properly cough in a corset. If you got to, you gotta do some funny breathing to make ’em go away.”

The bell rings downstairs.

“That one’s for me,” Violet says. She walks toward Junie, kissing her on the cheek.

“My dear Junebug,” she says with a smile. “Don’t trip.”

“You neither,” Junie replies.

Violet giggles, then takes her leave to descend the staircase.

Junie closes the door and presses her ear against its surface to listen to the voices downstairs, which rise in complimentary excitement. Violet is a hit. Junie smiles until a heaviness sinks through her limbs.

What will the ball be like for Violet? She will never be allowed to dance with her love, to hold her hand and glide across the room like ice melting across the polished wood. It will be a performance, a farce. And yet, she must go on. Violet has strutted upon her stage, begging for the moment when the curtains close and lights go out, when she will be heard no more.

Junie knows about performance. About what it means to live a life with your true visage hidden just beneath the surface of your skin. She just didn’t realize that Violet knew it, too.

She runs her hands over her glossy gown’s fabric, feeling her way across the same embroidery she’d touched with envy only a few hours ago.

It’s a gift to live.

Something Muh says each year at Christmas when they unwrap presents, each somehow more disappointing than the last in Junie’s adolescent eyes. The words made her feel like a fly, swatted away for expecting more. And yet, standing in a place far from home, thumbing the silky stitching of a gown she’d always longed to wear, she begins to see the buried truth in Muh’s refrain.

There is beauty in the persistence of her heartbeat, the tenacity of her breath, the courage of her bones.

The voices downstairs flow away into the distance, like water drawn downriver. Will Caleb be there, lingering next to the stairs for her arrival? She shakes her head. There’s no way.

Junie smooths the front of her dress, taking in as deep a breath as she can manage. She turns the doorknob in her sweating palm, opens it, and walks forward to the landing. The foyer’s empty. She lets out a breath, lifts her skirt, and descends the stairs. She turns the corner out of the house and steps tentatively in her heeled shoes into the cold December air. The wind whips off the river in the distance. She pulls Violet’s shawl closer around her shoulders, bouncing to stay warm. There’s no sign of Cecil or his carriage in the half-light of the stable lanterns. The back door opens and closes. Junie swallows her breath, daring herself to turn and see Caleb there. Instead, she hears the sound of heels clicking on the ground.

“Evening.”

She turns to see Martha and Mary, the housemaids, no more than a year or two older than Junie herself. Their dresses are the same style of ruffles and lace, Martha in robin’s-egg blue and Mary in summer’s peach. Junie bows her head toward them with a forced smile, hoping they don’t catch the disappointment just beneath the surface.

“You sure are dark for a maid, look more like a field girl or something. I suppose they do things different out in the country,” Martha says. “Where’s your little friend?”

Junie furrows her brow.

“I ain’t sure who you mean.”

“Oh you know, that man. That tall one with the long fingers!” Martha says, flicking open her fan.

“I ain’t his keeper,” Junie says, annoyance rising in her throat.

“See, Martha, now you’ve gone and upset her,” Mary says. “You best not mind my sister, here. She’s got a mouth like a pig and the sense to match it.”

Martha narrows her eyes. “I’ll go see about Cecil. I ain’t fooling with you or your attitude tonight, Mary!”

Martha crosses her arms and stomps off into the darkness toward the stable. A needle of grief pricks Junie, remembering all her fights with Minnie, both alive and dead.

“As you can see, the good Lord didn’t bless my sister with manners,” Mary says with a sigh. “You ever been to a ball, Miss…?”

“Junie. I ain’t never left my farm, really. We ain’t got many balls where I’m from.”

“Well, you look the part. Like an African duchess or something!”

Junie smiles nervously.

“I’ll take you around properly, then. Show you how it’s done, all right?” Mary says, tilting her head toward her.

“Thank you, I appreciate it, Miss Mary.”

The telltale trot of horses. She turns to see the carriage pulling in front of them, with Martha inside.

Cecil waves.

“I do declare, you ladies are water in a desert,” he says. “Even the dark one, what’s your name again, girl?”

“Junie,” she hisses.

“You better stop, Cecil,” Mary says, waving him away with her fan.

“Should we wait for…” Junie says, her voice trailing off.

“Your little friend? Naw, told me earlier he ain’t coming with us. Now, get on it ’fore we all catch the devil in this cold.”

Her heart drops. The dress, the ball, the whole night, suddenly reeks of childish stupidity. It was all a fantasy, of course, one she was foolish for believing in.

But, what is so wrong with being a fool? Anyone would call all her favorite poets and authors fools, people who defied their expectations to invent new worlds for themselves, and she loved them for it. What is so wrong about pretending life is something it isn’t, if only for a night?

Junie straightens and chastises herself for caring that Caleb isn’t there. The night is still full of possibility, full of wonder, full of foolishness. He will not be the downfall of her evening.

Junie steps inside the carriage, sitting on the fine velvet bench for the first time in her life. She leans her head against the window and looks out at the world as the carriage rolls its way toward the open street.