Page 52 of Frankly, My Dear

So why did the prospect no longer appeal? Why did a return to the future loom cold and uninviting before her?

Selene reeled with dismay when the answer came immediately to mind. James.

How could she leave…without James? How could she ever be happy in her old life without him?

With this new worry to weigh her down, Selene could barely crawl up the wide staircases—first the narrow enclosed one to the second floor, which was really the main living area, and then the wide, open one to the third floor where the main bedrooms were located. She had no idea, at this point, what rooms were on the dormered fourth floor.

A broad central hallway ran through each floor, giving brief glimpses of cloth-draped furniture in many unused rooms.

“Here it is, mam’zelle,” Iris said deferentially, holding the door open for her. Selene’s bedroom was one of six on the third floor, located at the end of the corridor. It overlooked the backyard, beyond which were the overseer’s cottage and the slave quarters, resembling a miniature village in the moonlight. Like the rest of the house, her room suffered from neglect—dust on priceless antique furniture, mildew on exquisite drapes, fly-specks on faded wallpaper and gilt picture frames.

“I changed the bed linens, but you gots to ’scuse the dust,” Iris offered apologetically. “Me ’n Verbena will give the room a good cleanin’ tomorrow.”

Selene had been raised in an antiseptic house where dirt was anathema. Her mother had designated each day of the week for certain household duties, in addition to managing Selene’s career. Aside from the daily dusting, vacuuming, scouring, and scrubbing, Selene’s mother insisted on certain weekly rituals. Religiously, all the woodwork and walls had to be washed with disinfectant, the mattresses turned, toilets and tile grout scrubbed with an old toothbrush, and windows Windexed till they sparkled like mirrors.

Until Selene’s career brought in enough money to hire domestic help, she had been expected to clean alongside her mother. She had carried on the tradition in her own apartment, even after her mother died of cancer five years ago.

Her mother was probably dusting the clouds in heaven. Heck, she probably had the angels organized into cleaning crews. Did the celestial beings cringe with guilt as Selene always had? Did they ever feel inadequate, unable to measure up to her mother’s lofty ideals?

Somehow none of these things seemed quite so important to Selene now. Not her indoctrinated fastidiousness, nor her mother’s rigid expectations.

She sank down with a whoosh onto the edge of the bed and began to remove her mud-caked shoes. Suddenly Selene realized that she hadn’t seen her all-important ballgown since she’d left New Orleans. “Iris, where are my clothes?” she asked with panic.

“Don’t you be frettin’ yo’self.” The slave walked over to a tall rosewood armoire and opened the double doors, exposing Selene’s meager wardrobe, including the ballgown and her makeup case.

With Iris’s help, Selene stepped out of her gown and full-length petticoat. Underneath she wore a sleeveless camisole-type undergarment and drawers that extended only to the top of her thighs. Since James had neglected to buy her a nightgown, this would have to do for sleeping. She looked down at her flat stomach, which had always been somewhat concave. Criminey, before she knew it there would be a pot belly there. “I’m going to have to start on a diet tomorrow,” she remarked aloud.

“A diet?” Iris looked up from where she was idly dusting a side table with the edge of her long apron.

“I’ve been eating too much the past week. I’m going to get fat if I’m not careful.”

Iris made a clucking sound of disagreement, eying her skeptically. “You gots a fine figure, mam’zelle. Y’hear?”

“James says I’m too skinny.”

“Men! They’s all the same. Sayin’ they wants their womenfolks to be slender, but sniffin’ after a hunk of flesh to hang onto when the hunger hits ’em. Why, I onct knew a man who…” Her words trailed off as she recognized the inappropriateness of her conversation. “Beggin’ your pardon, mam’zelle.”

“Don’t apologize. And isn’t it the truth? About men, I mean. They keep throwing out these mixed messages. Supposedly ‘thin is in’ for women, but when men are being perfectly honest about their sexual fantasies, their preference is really for more voluptuous women.” Selene shrugged and grinned companionably over the universal hopelessness of understanding men.

Iris hesitated, then grinned back at her. “Sexual fantasies?” the slave said and seemed to like the sound of the words. “Well, I sho-nuff gots a good hunk to hold onto.” She clapped a hand onto her wide bottom with a self-deprecating grimace. “The menfolks are always commentin’ on my…well, you know. No matter what I be sayin’ or doin’—washin’ clothes, servin’ food, goin’ to services when the travelin’ preacher comes by—their eyeballs be glued to the same ol’ spot, my backside. Makes a body shamed, it does.”

“Iris, you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and I’m not just saying that. Besides, a couple thousand tush crunches could probably tighten up your behind and…” Selene stopped herself, remembering James’s warning about talking of the future.

“Tush crunches? What’s a tush?”

“Never mind.”

Iris looked down at the floor, disappointed and obviously thinking she, a slave, had no right to question a white woman.

Hell! “Tush is another name for the buttocks.” She patted her own posterior to demonstrate.

“And a tush crunch?”

Selene winced at the realization that her running mouth had gotten her into trouble once again. “An exercise to reduce the tush,” she disclosed with a loud exhale of self-disgust. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

She began to pull the mosquito netting around the bed, yawning widely. When she turned, Selene almost jumped at the sight of Iris standing right behind her with her hands braced belligerently on her hips.

“Are you sayin’ there’s a way to get rid of this big butt of mine and you’re not gonna tell me?”