Mary noticed that Maizie’s blue eyes were moist with tears.
“Come and join us for a bite,” said James. Maizie did as she was told and sat in an empty chair next to James. Mary handed her a croissant on a plate. “Thank you. May I take this to the office? I’m not hungry right now, and I have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, but just be forewarned, they are flakey. It’s the butter that makes them that way,” explained Mary. “I wouldn’t want buttery fingerprints all over our correspondence, Maizie.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful.” Maizie stood, picked up her plate, and was about to leave when she stopped and looked at Mrs. Glidewell. “Do the others, the workers, get to eat these buttery things?”
“I’m afraid such a pastry is not in Thelma’s area of expertise. But Thelma does make delicious pies and cookies.”
“That’s true,” agreed Maizie and turned to go to her work. James and Mary remained quiet until Maizie had made her way out of the dining room.
“James, I’ve been wanting to talk with you about Maizie. Did you know she is only sixteen?”
James looked up from his plate and said, “I didn’t. She looks older. Beautiful girl.” Immediately James took another bite of food from his plate.
Mary waited, appearing a bit miffed, and continued: “She lied to me about her age at first, but eventually admitted her real age. I don’t like that she sleeps in the women’s bunkhouse. They are all so much older. And the men down there are older too. I would feel more comfortable if she was here in the ranch house.”
“Really? You want her living with us?” James looked surprised if not incredulous.
“Why are you so shocked?”
“Haven’t we agreed that we need to treat all staff the same?” asked James, picking up his newspaper.
“She’s so young. She should be treated differently. I was thinking of putting her in that small room in the hallway off my office. Right now I use it for storage, but I’m thinking of making it into a bedroom for her.”
“You sure have taken a liking to her, haven’t you?”
“I have. She’s a child in her thinking, but so bright and eager to learn. She does just what I ask her to do and catches on so fast.”
“That is why you hired her, isn’t it? You hired her to train her and give her a place to live, didn’t you?” James said.
“I did,” admitted Mary.
“I don’t think it wise to get too close. Better to keep the help at a distance.”
“I did hire her to help her. But I don’t see why you would mind.”
“I don’t. It’s just that you can get too involved, Mary.”
“Too involved, oh James. Really, that’s absurd,” she said loudly and threw her napkin on her plate. James put down his paper and looked at Mary.
“That’s how I see it. And perhaps so do some of the other help.”
“I’ll talk with the others. Get them to understand.”
“Oh Mary, please. That will make things worse. You are too involved already.”
“I still don’t see how caring for a child is getting too involved. There is something about her. I just couldn’t turn her away. There are few places in this world for someone like her to get a step up in life.”
“I see. You do have a big heart. This is against my better judgment but, yes, fix up the storage room. Just don’t… ”
“Don’t what?”
“Get too close.”
Chapter 6
Maizie’s Diary
May 5, 1931
Josie asked if I was colored today. I know she said it to put me in my place. She said it in a mean way, but I didn’t let her rile me up. I don’t want no problems with her. My mama always said my skin was beautiful. Sun kissed, she said. She told me my daddy was a bit darker than me. “Prettiest man I ever saw,” she would say, and I believed her because there was love in her eyes.
But some white folks act like I’m not worth much and that makes it hard for me to fit in. Mama being white and me, well, not quite white, made finding a place to bed down tough. But my mama was a good camper. She’d been doing it most of her life, I guess. She never once talked about having a real home.
There were years when Mama was working in someone’s house or cleaning hotel rooms, or other things. Those times we would try to rent a room, usually in the colored section of town. But when mama was between jobs, we camped. We spent the night in just about everything—the back of a parked wagon or truck, a dry cave, an abandoned mine, or an outbuilding. We carried our bedrolls with us, and a few things to eat, and Mama’s bag. You get used to living like that. It was just the way it was. Sometimes, if we could find a church with an empty basement, some nice preacher would let us sleep there if it was wet or just plain cold outside. Some folks had hearts.
The shelter in Springfield never turned us away. I became a shelter kid when I was eight and went to the colored school. That was good. I liked school and the teachers and kids treated me fine. They’d ask about my eyes and I’d just say my mama was white. They’d never say another word. I was smart in class, I guess. All the reading and arithmetic came easy for me and I loved to write. Mama said that learning was something I had to do for myself. She couldn’t read or write much, but she was sure proud of me.
We never stayed long at the shelter. When the weather changed, we would start camping again or sometimes get a job. We weren’t the only ones. There were others—times were hard. But my mama always made sure we were near
