Amethyst Quarters: Chapter One

“Suck it in, Scarlett. Suck it in!”

   “Oh, Betsy, I’m trying as hard as I can,” I said to her as she put her leg up on my armoire to get better leverage. “Would you mind tying it tighter? I really would be happy suffocating to death at this point.”

   “Oh, hush. Your mama will fuss at me if I don’ get it tighter,” she explained.

   “No, she’ll fuss at me because I’m not as petite and little as she’d like. Don’t worry about how thin you make my waist, I will always be as tall as a man, and have too large of breasts and hips for my mama’s liking,” I said with deep breaths, for I was trying not to become faint.

   Betsy contemplated my complaint, looking me up and down. She cinched in my corset angrily, tied it, and then turned me around to scold me.

   “Now you quit worryin’ so much about what your mama thinks. You are beautiful and that’s that. Do you think I’d lie to you?”

   I leaned against the wall, too weak to answer. Betsy pulled my chin to where I was forced to look into her large, wise, dark brown eyes. They were so amazing. She shook her finger at me as she finished convincing me that her words were solely truth, “No, I wouldn’t. Your mama seems to have one picture in her head of what beautiful is, and that one picture is her. She don’ undastand that not every woman that’s pretty is the same lookin’. And she definitely don’ undastand that she ain’t the prettiest thing that ever lived.”

   “Thank you, Betsy. You know something? I think you’re beautiful.”

   She turned away and giggled, “Oh, you silly girl! An ol’ negro like me?” She patted her apron and continued, “No, ma’am. I’m stout and wrinkly and dark as night.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I smiled as I assured her. I gazed at her and thought about what she said. Betsy was, indeed, stout and wrinkly and dark as night, but she was just as mesmerizing as a young, lean, white woman. Her face was very circular with round cheeks and eyes. She had large lips and was quite short.

    Betsy was always by my side; far more than either of my parents had ever been. She was my slave, according to my mother and father.

   My father grew up on a sugar cane plantation along the river, with six elder siblings. They eventually all moved away from their parent’s home, aside from my father. Whilst living in the luxurious plantation, exclusively with his parents, he met my mother during his times in New Orleans. Shortly after that, his father had an abrupt and untimely death. A heart attack was the cause, I believe. My father then took charge of the household, and cared for his mother. He married my mother soon after, but she was unhappy with the housing circumstances. She wanted to move to the city, but my father wanted to stay with his mother, for she was getting more and more sickly by the day. After three years of marriage in the plantation home, my parents finally received me. They intended to have more children, but never were able to. I was raised there for the first six years of my life. We left the house directly after the death of my grandmother occurred in 1849.

   My father had to sell essentially everything so we would be able to afford  moving into the city and so he could start his own business in one of the most upper-class places in all of Louisiana. By the time he was done with his auctioning frenzy, he was left with two slaves, Betsy and her husband Henry. He grew up with the couple, and had great confidence in them. So naturally, he didn’t want to let them go.

   The five of us moved into the brand new, smaller, more frivolous house. Betsy was then assigned to care for me and clean for the family. Henry was assigned to cook for the family and work for my father in his pharmacy.

   As a result of all the time Betsy and I spent together, we befriended one another.  Betsy was a nurturing soul with so many interesting stories and ideas. She had come to trust me and love me, as I had done her. She was more of a mother to me than my own mother. Whenever I needed someone to comfort me, she was always there.

   After a long moment of silence, she then started making my bed. “Please, let me do that,” I urged.

   “Scarlett, if your father saw, he would scold both of us for not knowing our place.”

   “I just feel horrible making you do all of it.”

   “You’re not makin' me do it, your mama and daddy are. That’s just how it is, sweetie. It’s not your fault,” she said as she tried to calm me down.

   I tried so frequently to do things for myself, because I liked being independent. But Betsy usually didn’t allow it. On the rare occasion, she would let me dress myself and put on my own makeup. But usually she was terrified that my father would find out.

   It was so hard for me to listen to my father when he wanted things run a certain way. I knew that I should have never questioned him because he was the head of the household, but I wanted a say in my own life sometimes. I hated that he and my mother, of all people, took charge of everything I did.

   The routine argument between Betsy and me had obviously died out, so I said to her curiously, “I’ve known you my entire life, and I never asked you how old you were.”

  She looked at me and said, “Are you askin' me now?” I smiled and nodded my head. “Well, I don’ think about it much. Let’s see,” she looked up at the ceiling and counted on her fingers, “I’m forty-five.” I was so surprised. I always thought she was much younger than that. She was such a good friend, it didn’t seem like we would have bonded as much as we had, considering there was such a large age difference between us.

   “How old is Henry?” I asked.

   She thought about it for a moment, then responded with, “I guess he’d have to be forty-six.”

   She started dusting my armoire and I went over to my window and looked through it wistfully. I observed all the townspeople of New Orleans on their way to church. It was pure chaos throughout the streets. The crowds were moving so quickly, it seemed as if they were running from something. It was a calescent Sunday morning, just like most. The fresh air of the flowers at bloom was exhilarating, giving the the atmosphere a state of warmth and home.

   I tried to observe all the wonders of the earth and the beauty of the city that I lived in, just to take my mind off of the daunting task that was at hand. I disliked getting prepared for church. I frequently got upset over the way I looked, and worried that my mother would find me unappealing. My mind was frantic at this time every Sunday morning. What was to come always made me extremely uneasy. Oh, how I dreaded going to church…

     Betsy looked at me and waved her duster in my direction, “What are you doin’ girl ? Always got your head in the clouds. You best be headin’ downstairs. Church’ll be startin’ any second.”

   As I responded, I went over to her and wrapped myself around her, “You’re right. Thank you, Betsy.”

   I let go, and as she looked up at me, she said, “You’re a beautiful young woman, Scarlett. Don’ let your mama or anyone else make you think otherwise.”

   “I really appreciate that, Betsy. It truly means a lot.” As I started to back up, I let out one tear and wiped it away as quickly as I could. I took one deep breath and smoothed out my dress. I started to walk out the door into the hallway, then ran back and said, “I almost forgot my fan.” I was going to need it, due to the scorching heat outside.

Betsy opened one of my drawers and grabbed it for me. She always knew where everything was. I popped it open; so simple, yet so handsome. It was a deep red with a black lace trim. I fanned myself in a fit of nervousness.

   “Calm down. There’s nothin’ to worry about,” Betsy said, trying to comfort me. I knew there was nothing to worry about, but my emotions were getting the best of me. I slowly sighed and let myself unwind.

   I ran out the door saying, “Goodbye, Betsy.”

   Nearly inaudible, her voice sounded from my bedroom, “Goodbye, Scarlett. Try to have a good time.”

   I ran downstairs to face my three biggest fears: My mother, my father, and the church.