The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

I focus on the question at hand, telling Samantha my family’s in the city, and Mrs. Edwards that a dollar a week sounds fine. She simply nods, signaling Elsa to take me upstairs. Elsa leads the way silently, up several increasingly narrow, creaking flights, to a tiny room under the eaves, maybe the tower I noticed from the yard. Told to wait while she finds clothes, I sink onto the edge of a narrow bed and use the moment to wonder if I made the right choice.

I think of Samantha, so eager for a friend, exactly what I’d been hoping for myself, stuck at Dad’s house missing Stella. If I stay a while, maybe she can help with the laundry, leaving time to have fun together, and I can always go home whenever I want.

Elsa returns with a drab gray dress and apron, clearly too big though she doesn’t seem to notice, and tells me to try it on. The rough material scratches as I pull it over my capris and t-shirt, itching at my shoulders, and though it nearly reaches my ankles, she declares it’ll do, then tells me to fold my bloomers so we can get started.

I fold my clothes into a neat pile, then remember my locket just before leaving the room, digging through the folded pants until I feel the heart-shaped pendant with relief. I fasten the delicate chain around my neck, ignoring Elsa’s impatient look from the doorway, and hurry to catch up on the stairs.

Instead of a washing machine, Elsa leads me to the backyard, where clothes soak in a big tub. She hands me a ridged metal washboard, cold and heavy in my hands, and demonstrates squeezing and rubbing a piece of white cloth against it. These are Mrs. Edwards’s dresses, so they need to come out clean, carefully.

The dark, waterlogged dresses hide whatever stains they have, so I scrub every inch as best I can, my knuckles reddening against the ridges, moving each to a second tub that Elsa refills now and then with hot stove water, checking on me as if certain I’ll ruin something. Finishing, exhausted, shoulders aching, and hungry, I learn we’re not done, the clothes still need rinsing and hanging.

Elsa teaches me to crank them through a wringer and hang the damp laundry on the line, right as the porch door swings open and Samantha pops out, asking to help. I nod eagerly, exactly what I’d hoped for. She hums while lifting a dress from the tub, saying it’ll be fun working together since she has no chores of her own. No chores at all? Even at Dad’s, I have a chore chart on the fridge I wasn’t thrilled about at first, though he insists pitching in comes with being part of the family. Watching her enjoy this, I wonder if having servants do everything eventually gets boring. Elsa won’t let either of us get bored today, though, and I reach for another piece of clothing.

Minutes later, Eddie from next door appears in the hedge, leaning on the branches, asking why Samantha’s helping “that servant girl,” like the word itself is an insult. I’m not really a servant, but even if I were, I wouldn’t want to be talked about that way. My face burns. Samantha lifts her chin, reaching for more laundry, and reminds him my name is Ruby, and he, Eddie Ryland, should mind his own business.

Eddie doesn’t answer, just sits cross-legged by the hedge nearby, watching with narrowed eyes. When I lean forward for more laundry, my locket swings into view and catches his eye. Where did I get that necklace? Did I steal it? This boy is impossible. I tell him no, it was a gift from my—I start to say stepmom, then wonder if mother would be simpler—and the pause stretches too long. He takes it as proof.

Eddie points at me, insisting no ragbag like me would own a necklace that nice. Anger burns hot enough to sting my eyes, but I refuse to let him see me cry, gripping the wet shirt tight in my hands instead and wringing it harder than necessary.