Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

would leave the least amount of dirt behind.
    By the time my turn arrived, Luther had to scoop out some water and replace it with another half dozen pails of hot. The first time I took a bath like this, Miss Emily burst in on me and dipped her fingers in the water to check the water temperature. She decided it wasn't hot enough and ordered Luther to bring in an additional pail or two of the hot.
    "It's hot enough," I protested.
    "Nonsense," she replied. "If the water isn't warm enough, you can't get the dirt that's deep down in your skin out," she insisted.
    I had to sit naked in the tub while Luther entered with the water and dumped it around me. I covered my nudity the best I could, but I saw Luther's eyes travel with interest even though his face didn't show it.
    I suspected that Luther had a nip or two of something from time to time, especially during the colder days in January and February. Sometimes, when I was finishing in the kitchen, he would come in carrying wood or bringing some hot water and I could smell the scent of whiskey. If Miss Emily smelled it, she didn't say. She wasn't afraid of Luther, for she didn't hesitate to snap at him or demand things from him in a sharp tone of voice, but she seemed to sense just how far she could push him.
    Why Luther worked so hard for her and Charlotte was a mystery to me; I was sure he didn't get much more than his room and board. He slept somewhere downstairs in the rear of the house, another place that was off limits to me, but I couldn't help wondering about him and asked him questions every chance I got. That meant only when he and I were alone, for if Miss Emily was present, he wouldn't so much as glance at me.
    "When did The Meadows get this run-down?" I asked him one morning after he had brought in the wood. I sensed that the plantation was his favorite subject and he would talk about it more willingly than he would talk about anything else.
    "Not long after Mr. Booth died," he said.
    "There were some debts and most of the livestock and some equipment had to be sold off."
    "What about Mrs. Booth?"
    "She died years before him . . . a stomach ailment," he said.
    "You work very hard, Luther. I'm sure you tried the best you could to keep it up," I said. I saw from the glint in his eyes that my words pleased him.
    "I told her; I explained to her what had to be done to keep it looking nice, but appearances ain't important to her. Pretty things invite the devil is all she says. I wanted to buy some paint, but she says no to that. So it looks the way it does. I keep the machinery working as best I can and the house is still a sturdy structure."
    "You're doing wonders with the little you have," I said. He grunted his appreciation.
    One day I was bold enough to ask him why he remained working there.
    "There's all kinds of ownership," he said. "Ownership that comes from a piece of legal paper and ownership that comes from years of workin' and livin' someplace. I'm as much part of The Meadows as anyone is," he added proudly.
    "The truth is," he said with the closest thing to a smile on his face, "The Meadows owns me. I don't know nothin' else."
    I wanted to get him to tell me more about Miss Emily and the family, but most of the time whenever I brought up anything remotely close to the subject, he would act as if he didn't hear anything I said. I didn't think he respected Miss Emily or even liked her much, but there was something about her that kept him obedient. Whenever I asked him to take me to Upland Station, he always had an excuse why he couldn't do it. Most of the time, he just went without saying anything.
    By mid-January, I had concluded that Miss Emily must have forbidden him to take me along, so I waited until we were alone and I begged him to mail a letter to Trisha for me. He didn't say he would do it and he didn't say he wouldn't, but he wouldn't take it from my hands.
    "I'll leave it on the counter here in the kitchen and next time you go, would you please take it along?" I asked. He watched where I put it, but he didn't respond. The next day the letter was gone. I waited for weeks for a reply from Trisha. I knew as soon as she received my letter she would write back, but whenever Luther did bring back mail none came for me.
    One morning when Luther brought in the wood, I asked him about it.
    "What letter?" he said.
    "The one I left on the counter. You saw me leave it that day," I insisted.
    "I saw it," he said, "but when I looked for it later, it wasn't