The Child Lives On
Chapter Eighteen
Graduating from high school with no prospects for marriage, while most in my class had already paired up, I enrolled in college with the idea that I might find an eligible young man. Two years later, I returned home with an education degree, and still no prospects for marriage. Resigned to my lonely fate, I applied for teaching positions all over Broome County. Months went by with no response. My sense of self-worth was at an all time low. Desperate, I began to look for any old job around Binghamton. Every morning, with a cup of coffee in hand, and little hope in my heart, I combed over the slim-pickings in the want-ads. Mom often joined me in the search.
"You could do this," she said one morning.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Governess."
"Governess? You've got to be kidding."
"Why?"
"That's just what I need, another little brat like Zoe."
My little sister Zoe picked that moment to step into the kitchen. Ten years my junior, she's a real handful, believe me. "Hey!" she said. "Who're you callin' a brat?"
"I'm calling you a brat, brat."
Sliding into the chair next to me, she said, "If you hadn't noticed, Margie-wargie, I'm not a kid anymore."
"Nah, you're still a kid."
"Nah ah."
"Yah ah."
"Nah ah."
"Yah ah."
"Would you two stop bickering?" cried Mom, rolling her eyes.
"Margie started it," said Zoe.
"Hush!"
Putting this childishness behind us, for the moment, we returned to the task at hand.
"What are you looking at?" asked Zoe.
"A job in the paper," was my answer.
"What kind of job?"
"Governess."
"You want it?"
"Not really."
"Margie," said Mom, "don't you want to be a teacher?"
"I suppose so. What other options…?"
"If you were a teacher, you'd have to deal with a room full of kids. If you can't handle one…"
"Yeah," said Zoe, "if you can't handle one…"
"Alright, alright," I said. "What does the ad say?"
"Let me see," said Mom, slipping on her reading glasses. "Apply at Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing."
"I thought you said they were looking for a governess."
"They are."
"Then why would I apply at a clothing store?"
"There's only one way to find out."
Later that morning, I found myself standing on the sidewalk in front of Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing. The store is located in a large three story brick building in the middle of downtown Binghamton. Behind the front windows, mannequins, posing in elegant attire, were displayed in various sophisticated settings. Taking a deep breath, and giving myself a pep-talk, I stepped through the front door. The interior was beautifully furnished, but practically devoid of clothing. Apparently, you have to ask for what you want. A well-groomed young man, in dress pants, dress shirt, suspenders and bow tie, asked, "May I help you, Miss?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm here about the job in the paper."
"Which job?"
"Governess."
"Wait right here."
Picking up a phone behind the counter, he spoke a few words, incoherent to me, and hung up. "Miss," he said, "Mr. Brockmeyer will be right with you." Having done his duty, he turned his attention to the gentleman who had come in behind me.
Having a look around, I noted the lack of women. I'm surprised, I thought. I was expecting more applicants. Not long after, a dapper man of middling height, with a pencil thin mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles, came down some steps and walked briskly toward me. "Good morning, Miss," he said. "You are here about the governess job?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"And your name?"
"Margery Steadman."
"Come this way, Miss Steadman."
I followed him up the steps to the second floor. Tailors and seamstresses, hard at work, barely noticed us as we weaved our way around work-tables and desks. The sounds of scissors, sewing machines and chatter filled the air. A small office, sparsely furnished, was located in the back of the room. Mr. B. offered me a seat in a sturdy wooden chair, then sat behind a plain wooden desk. "Miss Steadman," he said, getting right to the point, "do you have any experience as a governess?"
"No, sir," I said. "Fresh out of college, I'm afraid."
"Any experience at all with children?"
"Only babysitting."
"Would this be your first full-time job?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you any references?"
Retrieving some letters of recommendation from my purse, I held them out to him. He took them from my hand, and read them over carefully. "Very well," he said. "I'm willing to give you a chance. When can you start?"
"Right this minute," I said.
"Just what I wanted to hear." Jumping to his feet, he hurried to the door, and beckoned to me with his hand. "Come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"To the orphanage."
"The orphanage?"
"I'll explain on the way."
While driving across town in his motor-car, Mr. B. told me about a little orphan girl who could knit like nobody's business. By the time he had finished his glowing report, I was anxious to meet her. "Treat her like a princess," he said. "Make sure she has the best of everything. You'll be given an expense account, of course."
All this because she can knit? is what I was thinking. What I said was, "Yes, sir."
The matron in charge of the orphanage looked me over carefully and asked several probing questions while someone was fetching the child. I couldn't help thinking, Am I supposed to gain her approval as well?
An elderly lady, in plain dress, with iron gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, entered the matron's office. "Fran," said the matron, "did you find Emily?"
"Right behind me," said Fran.
A cute little round face, framed by auburn curls, peeked out from behind Fran's skirts.
"Emily, my dear," said the matron, "Mr. Brockmeyer has brought your governess."
"Bonjour, Monsieur Brockmeyer," said Emily. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Governess." Her cute little voice matched her cute little face perfectly.
"Bonjour, Emily," I said, rising from my seat and holding out my hand. "Will you come to me?"
The child skirted the wall, all the way around behind the matron's desk, in order to get to me. I don't know if she thought Mr. B. was going to attack her or what, but the fear was real.
"Come now, Emily," said the matron. "Mr. Brockmeyer is not going to bite you."
"I would not care if he bit me," murmured Emily.
Bizarre, in my opinion, but nothing more was said on the matter. She overcame her fear of Mr. B. eventually, but that's another story.
"Thank you, Fran," said the matron. "You may go."
"Goodbye, Emily," said Fran, with a little wave. "I hope you find happiness in your new home."
"Merci, Madame Fran," said Emily. "Au revoir"
"Shall we go?" asked Mr. Brockmeyer.
"Come, Emily," I said.
"Oui, Mademoiselle," she said, holding tightly to my hand.
"And please call me Margie."
"As you wish."
"And call me Ogden," said Mr. B.
"Very well, Monsieur Ogden."
Bidding farewell to the matron, we went on our way.
And so, a new chapter in my life began.
It didn't take long to discover what the fuss was all about. Emily's skill with the knitting needles is beyond compare. I've heard of prodigies in art and music, but knitting? How did she learn it at such a young age? Did it come naturally? In the end, some things are just inexplicable.
One day, Mr. B. confided in me. "Fashion is a cutthroat business," he said.
"I never would have imagined," was my response.
"Lost some of my best tailors and seamstresses to the competition. Don't want to lose Emily."
"I wouldn't worry if I were you. She doesn't seem to be the greedy type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"You never know. Some smooth talker…"
"That's why you hired me, isn't it?"
"You're right, of course. I'll leave it to you."
"Thank you, Mr. B. I won't let you down." I hope.
Mr. B's home is a large Victorian, with gables, towers and a white picket fence encompassing an entire acre, or maybe two. It's located within walking distance of downtown and the store. Emily and I were installed on the second floor, with carte blanche regarding furnishings and decor. Sensible and practical to a fault, Emily picked out basic run-of-the-mill items. My orders were to treat her like a princess, and, by golly, I was going to do it, whether she liked it or not. It took some haggling, but we finally compromised on some quality furniture at a modest price. For such a sweet child, she can be pretty darn stubborn.
When all is said and done, it's not the luxurious home, the fine meals, and the fun entertainments (such as these new-fangled moving-pictures) that make this such a great job, but the friendship which has developed between me and my charge. Emily is the quietest, most polite, and most mature child I have ever met. In my limited experience, I never imagined such a child could possibly exist.
Not long after the events previously described, I took Emily and Jacques (her Yorkshire terrier) to the family home to meet Mom and Zoe. Dad was at the office. Mom prepared a nice lunch. After lunch, we gathered in the living room. When Emily left to use the restroom, Mom said, "What a darling child, so sweet and polite," and Zoe said, "Ugh! What a prissy little goodie-goodie."
"Must be a joy to watch," said Mom.
"Indeed she is," I said
"Is that all you do? Watch?" said Zoe. "Must be boring as all get out."
"It's not all I do. I'm her teacher as well."
"What do you teach her? Mary had a little lamb?"
"I'll have you know, she reads at a college level, in two languages, no less."
"Impressive," said Mom.
"Would be a teacher's pet at my school," muttered Zoe. "All the kids would hate her."
"Do you attend a school for delinquents?" I asked.
"Okay, maybe not all the kids. We have a few goodie-goodies."
"You act like it's a bad thing to be smart and get good grades."
"There's nothing wrong with getting good grades, but they don't have to be so stuck-up."
At that moment, Emily returned to the room. "What is stuck-up?" she asked, as she climbed onto the couch next to me. Jacques jumped onto her lap and licked her face. She hugged him and murmured, "Qui est un bon chien?"
"I thought you said she was smart," said Zoe. "She doesn't even know what stuck-up means."
"You don't have to know slang to be smart," I said.
"Ta sœur ne m'aime pas?" asked Emily.
I answered, "Elle est contraire."
"Is that some kind of secret code?" asked Zoe.
"It's French," I said.
"Why don't you speak American?"
"You mean English."
"I mean what I mean."
Some bickering ensued which need not be repeated. When the dust settled, Mom asked Emily, "Do you do anything besides knit?" We had been talking about knitting over lunch, which had bored Zoe to no end.
"I enjoy gardening," said Emily, "and hope to plant a garden in the spring."
"Oh, I love fresh tomatoes."
"With fresh red-leaf lettuce, kale, spinach, and a light vinaigrette. Mmmm, tres bon!"
"Ew," said Zoe, making a face. "Gross!"
Emily looked up at me, her bright green eyes full of questions. "What is gross?"
"It means she doesn't like it," was my answer.
"Your sister, she does not like tomatoes?"
"The only way she'll eat tomatoes is on spaghetti."
"Ah, oui, we often had spaghetti at the orphanage, with little balls of ground meat."
"You didn't like it?"
"I eat because I am hungry, but I prefer fresh vegetables and fruit."
"What a weirdo," said Zoe.
"Zoe," said Mom, "be nice."
"But she is."
"What is a weirdo?" asked Emily.
"A strange or unusual person," I said.
"Ah, oui, it is true, I am a weirdo."
"You're not a weirdo, honey," said Mom. "You're a breath of fresh air. Zoe could learn a thing or two from you."
"Merci, Madame Steadman."
"No need to be so formal, honey. Call me Harriet."
"Mom," whined Zoe, "you don't really expect me to learn anything from a five year old, do you?"
"She's older than five, isn't she?" Speaking directly to Emily, she asked, " How old are you, sweetheart?"
"One hundred thirty five," said Emily, with the straightest of straight faces.
"Ha, ha, ha, how cute."
"We don't know how old she is," I said. "Her birth records have not been found."
"Maybe she really is a hundred and thirty-five," said Zoe.
"Oh, Zoe," said Mom, rolling her eyes. "Sometimes…"
The following spring, Emily planted her garden. Mom got her fresh tomatoes, which she promptly cooked into spaghetti sauce, which, as I see it, defeated the purpose. At first, I assumed the garden was going to be a little plot with a few little plants. Much to my surprise, it grew and grew until it covered a quarter of the back yard and overflowed with all manner of vegetables and herbs. We harvested so much, we couldn't eat it all, and had to set up a table at the local farmer's market. It's not that we needed the money, it was just something to do. If Emily isn't busy, she's not happy.
I've been observing Emily for over a year now, and can't help but wonder if she's altogether human. Her amazing knitting skills, her greenest of green thumbs, her perfect manners, her excessive cleanliness and neatness, her vast knowledge of herbs, her ability to read and comprehend at a college level in both English and French, are just not normal for a child of eight, or whatever her age. She doesn't stand out in a crowd, but if you take a closer look… well… she's appears… dare I say… magical?