CHAPTER 1: BELLE
The taxi ride from the rundown motel where I stayed the previous night to the house I stood outside of was a unique experience for me. It took half an hour just to leave the city from the area where the motel was located near the bus station. It was another 15 minutes to this gated community. Atlanta seemed impossible for me to comprehend. I seemed to find very little that I could reference to the town in Mississippi where I came from.
The house wasn't even a house by any reference I previously had. Three houses might fit inside this mansion and the ground it sat on was fenced, well cared for, and felt private even though similar homes dotted the area behind the guarded community gate.
I needed this job. It was a nothing job but I was a nothing girl. At least that was what Mother and Father always told me. On my 18th birthday two days ago, I was put on a bus destined for Atlanta with one old, battered suitcase and $300 in cash. Most of that was already gone from the motel, some food, and the taxi.
Walking through the grimy bus station on arriving in Atlanta, I had grabbed a discarded newspaper from a bench. I knew the first thing I had to accomplish was to find a job quickly or end up living on the streets like those I had already seen while entering the city. Those people looked hungry, dirty, and broken. I was only 18 years old. I was already abandoned to Atlanta's streets.
Lying on the musty bed with the ads section spread before me, I had found a small ad: "Young, legal aged woman sought for live-in housekeeping, cooking, and OTHER SERVICES to couple. Salary and benefits." An email address was provided. Of course, my next problem was that I had never been allowed to use a computer. With only an email address provided, how was I going to respond? Luckily, the frumpy lady at the reception desk wasn't as nasty as I originally felt in my exhausted state after the long bus ride. She set me up so I could hunt and peck the letters to words as I explained my difficulty in responding but deep desire for consideration. Whoever was on the other end of the exchange didn't seem impressed with my qualification which was totally understandable since I had no outside the home experience. All I could promise was that I had been raised to care for house and family, including cooking and laundry.
It took some back and forth of exchanges. The frumpy woman at the reception desk appeared to losing patience. But, finally, I had an address and a time for an interview. That was how I came to be standing at the curb before the huge house as the taxi left me behind. To my surprise, before I could ring the bell the large front door opened.
"You must be Gertrude Schmitt," the woman exclaimed as she stood in the open door looking at me from head to foot several times. She didn't seem impressed by what she saw. I didn't blame her. My dress was as old fashioned as the name I was given at birth but rarely use. The short-sleeved dress buttoned in the front with a simple belt at the waist. As always, it was buttoned at the neck and extended down below my knees. The material was worn but clean. Mother gave me new dresses only when the previous ones became too small.
"You certainly are not what I was hoping for," the woman said as we stood at the door. She was hesitant but finally stepped back to allow me inside.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I uttered. More disappointment. That seemed to be my existence ... such as it was. Mother and Father always seemed to be disappointed regardless of my efforts. My two younger brothers didn't seem to have any impression of me at all.
The entryway was massive. Overwhelming to my limited experience. A wide staircase rose the another floor and a large chandelier hung from two stories up. A doorway to the right showed a very formal looking living room. A door opposite it to the left revealed a large, exquisite dining room. She led me into the living room.
She introduced herself as Julia Matthews. She said her husband should be arriving any moment. They were anxious to fill the position and her husband was leaving the office early. I felt hopeful given the attention they were giving me.
She was an attractive black woman of about 40-years-old. She wore her black hair short. She was about 5' 5" tall with a general body shape that indicated taking care of herself. Her eyes shined naturally and were brown. The clothes she wore were fitted to her body, revealing, and expensive. Her skirt stopped mid-way down her thighs and her white blouse was just sheer enough to hint at a lace bra underneath. Her breasts seemed to be C-cup which would have been the only similarity to me.
She engaged me in idle talk that did not seem like much of an interview until we both heard a door open and close somewhere else in the house.
"Ah ... good, there is Charles now," she exclaimed with some relief in her tone.
A man soon appeared in the doorway to the living room. I stood at his appearance. He took one quick look at me, shook his head, and told Mrs. Matthews they need to talk. I could hear their voices, perhaps in the dining room, but not the words.
* * * *
"Seriously, Julia? She's not at all what we're looking for," he said waving a hand in the general direction of the other room.
"Really, Charles? How many girls have we talked to? Maybe this just isn't going to work," she countered.
"I thought you were wanting this, too."
She stepped up to him. He was a good half a foot taller than her. She patted and smoothed her hand over his chest under his expensive suit jacket. "You know I do. It would be an amazing combination. But, all the girls we've talked to were either sluts who couldn't do a days worth of real work or hardly spoke English, who knew how to work, but were put off by the other part."
"And her?" he waved his hand toward the other room, again. "She's clearly not the type we want. Just look at the way she's dressed. It's like a costume to make sure we don't want her, for crying out loud." She soothed him as only she could before giving him a light kiss. "Maybe, you're right," he conceded. "Maybe this isn't going to work."
She brightened and he knew in that moment he had lost. "Then, since you are home, there is no reason not to at least talk to her." She took his hand and began tugging. "There is something different about her, Charles. I can feel it."
He rolled his eyes and she smiled at seeing he had already given up his fight.
* * * *
When they returned, I was introduced to Mr. Matthews (Charles, apparently). It slipped out that he was a major corporate vice president. It had to be something like that to account for a house like they had. He was a black man, also about 40-years- old, 6-foot tall with an athletic appearing body shape, black hair cut short, and black commanding eyes.
They sat on the love seat opposite the chair where I sat. With him present, the questions quickly flew at me. My answers we just as quick and short. Basically, no. I had no formal experience; no school degree; no anything. He sat back exasperated. Mrs. Matthews smiled pleasantly and patted his leg.
"Dear," she took over, "you have no experience but you are applying for a housekeeping and cook job. Explain." Her expression was soft and open.
"Yes, Ma'am. You see ... housekeeping and cooking and laundry are the only things I have ever done. I am very experienced, just not in the way Mr. Matthews asked," I replied.
She gazed at me as if trying to understand. She switched, "School, then ... you never graduated?"
I shook my head. "No, Ma'am. It's not so much that I failed to graduate. I just never went to school. My job was the house so Mother taught me at home."
"Any sibling?" she probed. I nodded. "They were home-schooled, too?"
I shook my head. "Just me, Ma'am. The boys went to school." They were both watching me carefully. "The boys were boys. They went to school, had friends, sports. Boys stuff." I shrugged my shoulders.
Mr. Matthews leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. "Boys stuff ..." he repeated. "What about girls stuff?"
"I took care of the house, cooked, and did the laundry."
"That's girls stuff?" Mrs. Matthews exclaimed excitedly. "How long did you do that? Did you do it with your mother?"
"How long?" I repeated thinking. I shrugged. "Forever, I guess. When I was too young, I helped Mother. As I grew, about 10-years-old or so, I was doing most of it myself. I know how to take care of a house, cook, and stuff, Ma'am." I looked at the fine furniture. "This is a really big house, but I can do it. I promise."
"Wait," she said as if trying to understand something. I didn't think it was that complicated. I was always told I was nothing. And, these questions, did they really pertain to the job? "You say 'Mother' like it's her name. I mean, not like 'my mother'."
"It was her name," I said. "At least to me. Mother, Father. I wasn't to use 'mommy' or 'mom'."
"And your name is Gertrude," he uttered watching me. He too was having trouble wit things. "That's a really old name. Very unusual."
I nodded. "Mother's mother's name. Mother didn't like her. Mother and Father didn't like me, either. I think that was why I got the name."
They exchanged looks. She shook her head. "No ... how could that be? A name is given at birth. How could they already know they didn't like you?"
I stared at my hands in my lap. I was wringing them like I did to wet rags I used when cleaning the floors. I didn't look up. "Because ... because they said I was an ... uhm ... abomination." Tears welled in my eyes. "That's why," I paused to take a needed breath for control but tears fell from my eyes, anyway. Once I was kicked out of the family, I wanted to forget, to find a different life. Why did they have to ask all these questions about things I just want to forget? I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I looked up and they were both leaning forward and watching me. I took another breath. "That's why I never left the house, wore these dresses. That's why I never went to school or had friends even though my brothers did everything. That's why I am here. When I turned 18, they put me on a bus to Atlanta with some cash which is almost gone now. I need this job, Sir, Ma'am. I'll do a good job. I promise."
Even Mr. Matthews looked at me with softness and concern. "Were you abused, Gertrude? Did they hurt you?" I shook my head and told them I was never touched. "What about hugs, though?" I shook my head.
They looked at each other. She softly told him, "A lot of emotional abuse, though." He nodded.
