Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

upstairs when I heard some whimpering from the rear of the house and found Tottie sitting in a corner by the window in the library. She had a feather duster in her hand, but she wasn't doing any work. She was all crunched up in the chair and just staring out the window.
    "What is it, Tottie?" I asked. Hard times were raining down around us so fast, I didn't know what to expect.
    "Henry's been sent off," she said. "He's packing his things and going."
    "Sent off? Sent off to where?"
    "Off the plantation, Miss Lillian. Your papa, he says Henry's too old to be of any value now. He should go live with relatives, but Henry, he ain't got no relatives alive, none to speak of, that is."
    "Henry can't go!" I cried. "He's been here almost all his life. He's supposed to stay here until he dies. He always expected he would."
    Tottie shook her head.
    "He'll be gone before night falls, Miss Lillian," she declared as solemnly as the Voice of Doom. She sniffed and then stood up and began to dust again. "Ain't nothing like it was," she muttered. "Those dark clouds just keep rolling on in."
    I turned, threw my books on the table in the hallway, and ran out of the house. I got to Henry's quarters as quickly as I could and knocked on his door.
    "Why hello there, Miss Lillian," Henry said, beaming a wide smile as if nothing at all was wrong. I looked past him and saw he had tied up his clothes in a bundle and had filled an old and tattered brown leather suitcase with everything else he owned. He had rope where the suitcase's straps used to be.
    "Tottie just told me what Papa has done, Henry. You can't go. I'm going to beg him to let you stay," I moaned. My eyes were filling with tears so quickly, I thought my face would be drenched.
    "Oh no, Miss Lillian. You can't do that. Times are hard here and the Captain, he ain't got much choice," Henry said, but I could see the pain in his face. He loved The Meadows as much as Papa did. Even more, I thought, for Henry's sweat and blood was in this plantation.
    "Who'll take care of us and provide our food and . . ."
    "Oh, Mr. Slope will do just fine when it comes to those chores, Miss Lillian. Don't fret none."
    "I'm not worried about ourselves, Henry. I don't want anyone else doing those things. You can't go. First, Louella retires and now you are sent away. How can Papa fire you? You're as much a part of The Meadows as . . . as he is. I won't let him send you away. I won't. Don't pack another thing!" I cried, and ran toward the house before Henry could change my mind.
    Papa was in his office, behind his desk, bent over his papers. Beside him was a glass of bourbon. When I entered, he didn't look up until I was practically at his desk.
    "What is it now, Lillian?" he demanded as if I were pulling on his coattails with requests and questions all day. He sat up and tugged on the ends of his mustache, his dark eyes scanning me critically. "I don't want to hear another tale about your mother, if that's it."
    "No, Papa. I. . ."
    "Well then, what is it? You can see I'm tormenting over these damn bills."
    "It's about Henry, Papa. We can't let him go, we just can't. Henry loves The Meadows. He belongs here forever," I pleaded.
    "Forever," Papa spat as if I had spoken a curse word. He gazed out the window for a moment and then he sat forward. "This here plantation is still a working farm, a money-making enterprise, a business. Do you know what that means, Lillian? That means you put costs and expenses on one side and profits on the other, see," he said, tapping on his papers with his long right forefinger. "And then you subtract the profits by the costs and expenses periodically and see what you have and what you don't and we don't have a quarter of what we had a year ago this time. Not a quarter!" he cried, his eyes wide and raging at me as if it was my fault.
    "But Papa, Henry . . ."
    "Henry's an employee, just like anyone else, and just like anyone else, he's got to pull his load or go. The fact is," Papa said in a calmer tone, "Henry is way past his prime, way past the age when he should be retired and sitting on a back porch someplace smoking a corncob pipe and remembering his youth," Papa said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "I kept him on as long as I could, but even his small wages contribute to the bottom line and I can't afford to waste a penny these days."
    "But Henry does his work, Papa. He always did."
    "I got a new, young man to do all that work and he costs me plenty, but he's worth it.