The Boarding House
Grandpa’s anger has finished boiling, but he still simmers. He says to pack my things. I have to spend the rest of our time in Gettysburg with a woman I’ve never set eyes on.
Before we leave the hotel, I dump the whole bottle of Eau des Fleurs down the water closet. I flush and flush, but the flowery smell lingers. My nose can no longer abide what Gerald Simms purred over like a tomcat.
Grandpa totes the heavy suitcase and I walk by his side. Along the square. Down the sidewalk. I ask why he’s sending me away.
“On account’a I’m fixin’ ta stay at the Camp and help ‘em git ready fer the Reunion. General Walker from the old Stonewall Brigade says they kin use another set’a hands.”
“Can’t you work days and stay nights at the hotel?”
Grandpa avoids my eyes. “Better I sleep in the Camp.”
“Can I stay at the hotel by myself? I promise not to wander off again.”
“The hotel is booked full once the Reunion commences. And I don’t cotton ta ya bein’ alone the livelong day and night. Folks at the boardin’ house kin look after ya when I ain’t there. Ya kin trust ‘em.” Grandpa pauses. “And about trustin’, I don’t want ya ta see no more’a that Simms feller. He ain’t ta be trusted.”
Now my eyes avoid Grandpa’s. I could tell him a few things about not trusting Gerald Simms. I say nothing.
We pass the street where the bakery is, cross the railroad tracks, and plod on to where houses are further apart. They sit back from the street behind lawns and flower patches.
Grandpa stops in front of an odd-looking house. Its faded red bricks look considerable old, but a front porch looks added on. Over the porch, a small steep-roofed addition with a windowed peak looks as appealing as a wart on an old lady’s nose.
Flowers were used to pretty up the “old lady.” Hollyhocks reach the window sills, and lavender bushes grow around the front porch. The fragrance of lavender fills my nose as Grandpa leads me up the walk.
Before we reach the screen door, a bony onion-skinned hand opens it. The white-haired woman must have been watching for us.
“Come in. Glad to have you.” Her high-pitched, quivery voice reminds me of a squeaky door hinge.
Grandpa introduces her as Mrs. Grome, but Mrs. Gnome would fit better. She’s so tiny she scarcely reaches my chin, and so bent her scant bosom hangs at her waist.
The house smells of cooking—spicy, chickeny, and pleasant. As I bump my suitcase up narrow stairs to the second floor, the scent of coal oil intrudes. No electric lights here.
Mrs. Grome leads me to a sunlit room, but walks past a four-poster bed to an alcove no bigger than our Sears, Roebuck tent. An oil lamp sits on a night table squeezed beside a bed, and the bedspread has sun-faded splotches.
Steep-sloped walls rise over the alcove and follow the shape of the roof to a peak with a window too high to see out. I don’t even get a room here—just the wart on the house’s nose.
Grandpa hangs back by the room’s door until a woman bustles through the doorway, wedging him aside. She stands taller than Grandpa, and her body is twice his. Strands of gray meander through brown hair above a face so full it leaves no room for wrinkles. Her size next to the gnome-woman’s might make me giggle—if I were of a giggling mood.
“This must be Virginia.” She extends her hand to me. “I’m Florence Canberry, your roommate.”
“Roommate?” I look at Grandpa, who mumbles an excuse about meeting up with General Walker and lights out. No mention of where he’ll be or when he’s coming back. I am at the mercy of strangers.
