Crescent City Part 10
She had not gone far. She had gone just to the sandy grove near the bayou, perhaps to flush a red squirrel or on some other errand of importance. In the morning Blaise told f.a.n.n.y.
"No, don't go, Miss Miriam, don't go," f.a.n.n.y cried. But Miriam had already gone to follow Blaise, and so she came upon the little tragedy.
It was a horrifying sight. The alligator, surprised somehow before he had completed his atrocious deed, had left the remains of Gretel on the path: a part of the tiny body and some blowing tufts of white-blond hair. There was scarcely enough to weep over, only enough to retch over. And Miriam, after that first look, fled sick and weeping behind a tree.
Shuddering and cold in the heat, she stood with her hands covering her face. She had a flash of recollection: She was on the ship and the trembling wet puppy was placed in her hands; the boy Gabriel had such a tender look on his face-the recollection vanished. She was standing on the lawn with f.a.n.n.y, Blaise, and Eugene staring at her.
Eugene had followed from the house.
"Take it away, Blaise," he commanded.
"Right away, right away." Blaise turned to Miriam. "Is there any special place you'd like for me ..." And on the dark face there was a look of extraordinary gentleness.
"Come, now," Eugene said, "it's too bad, and I'm sorry, but let's not go into mourning. Spare me, please. I'll get another dog for you, and that will be that."
As if a dog were a thing!
"Don't look so glum," he admonished. "You have other things to think about now anyway."
Her hands went to her stomach, its swelling bulge hidden under the circling skirts.
f.a.n.n.y had told her how after a while she would feel the new life moving. Her thoughts went then from life to death, to violent death, as if the dog's death were an omen.
Lately she had been thinking of her mother and of her own birth; she could then feel, actually feel, a thrust of pain, even while she knew these thoughts were morbid and unreasonable.
But fear went with her, nevertheless. A looming ghost, it came with darkness. Early in the night, as if on signal, the trill and throb of insects gave sudden way to a foreboding silence. After a while the wind rose, flying and soughing through the Scotch pines on the bayou path where the wet black alligator with the hideous snake-head would be slithering after prey. An owl screeched. The owl's screech is a death sign, f.a.n.n.y used to say. The house stood abandoned to the night.
Who would tell what lurked beyond the bolted doors? Every night, after everyone was asleep, Eugene bolted the heavy doors.
Often Miriam thought about what lay outside those doors. Much that she had seen on the plantation troubled her. She had looked into the quarters where, on the littered floors, children crawled among fowl and their droppings, while dogs and sheltering hogs rooted under the shacks. She had seen the families taking their evening meal on their doorsteps, eating out of a common iron pot with their fingers or a piece of wood. Friendly voices greeted, "Evening, missis." They were friendlier than the overseer, a sullen Yankee who lived with his family at the far end of the line of shacks. Strange that he never smiled, while those whom he ruled from his tall post on horseback could smile.
"He steals from the master," f.a.n.n.y told Miriam. "Everybody knows he does."
He got a bonus for every bale of cotton over the fixed quota, and he worked the people hard. Everyone over the age of ten labored from the rising of the sun to its setting. Even children, before they were old enough to cut cane or to pick cotton fast enough to make their three or four hundred pounds a day, worked carrying water to the fields.
So Eugene kept a gun and pistols in the cupboard next to the bed. Eugene, she could have told him while she lay awake, listening to every creak and whisper, Eugene, neither the doors nor the guns will help if they want to get in. She could almost hear the snapping flames whir as they rushed up the chimney and devoured the stairs.
But there were worse fears. The rounded bulk of Eugene's back made a deeper darkness in the dark s.p.a.ce of the bed. Her eyes, stretched wide, fixed themselves on the man's sleeping back. A whole life. A whole life, like this.
He was not satisfied with her. And why should he be? She could not love him. He wanted what she could not give. He wanted a wife to please him in return for fils name and his support; that was only what any man would want. A woman was supposed to please, and to act pleased, whether she was or not. That, too, was part of the unspoken bargain.
But I can't do it, she thought; something in me can't do it. And she felt pity for him because he gave fairly to the bond called marriage while she did not. They were strangers to each other, although he would never undermine his dignity by admitting that he knew they were, or that she loathed him.
Only in company did his laughter ring. All the long summer, by carriage and steamer, the guests came and went, whole families of them, to stay for a day, a week, or longer. Early in the morning before they clattered away on horseback to the hunt, the men breakfasted downstairs. Still in bed, for pregnancy gave her an excuse to avoid whatever she wanted to avoid, Miriam could hear them talking over their potted meats, their salmon and prawns, their claret and sugared brandy.
In the evening after dinner she could excuse herself again and go upstairs; a pregnant woman was supposed to be delicate. But she was not delicate; her body tingled with energy. Her feet moved to the sound of violins, to the mazurkas and quadrilles being danced below. It was only the spirit, weighted down, that did not move.
Her mind drifted. To walk downstairs and out of the door! To throw off all these c.u.mbersome skirts, to stride away like some countrywoman in her shift, her cotton or linsey-woolsey with a hole for the head, her cool garments so poor and still so graceful! Yes, dressed like that, to walk and walk through the fields, past the sweet gum groves, up the hill, free, free-Her hand made an arc in the air, a falling gesture of resignation.
Romantic nonsense! Free, free, and over the hill to where?
Late, after she had fallen asleep, Eugene would come upstairs. She would awake to the rustle of his clothes and the creak of the bed when he climbed in; then he would turn and take her by her shoulders. Someday, she thought, someday it will happen. Something inside me that I am holding back will give way, and I shall pummel his back with my fists and scream.
Yet he meant her no harm. He had sought her out and wanted her. She was to mother his child. Would the child make a change? In him? Or in herself? She wanted to ask Pelagie, now pregnant with her sixth child, whether that was so. When Pelagie came to visit she would ask.
"I'm very unhappy, Pelagie," she said.
The blood flowed up Pelagie's white neck and tinged her earlobes.
"I hate it," Miriam whispered. "I dread it."
And she wanted to ask, Is there something wrong with me? Is there any way I can make it better? But Pelagie's hideous blush prevented her.
"If one wants children, it's the only way," Pelagie said. She had not once looked at Miriam. Her answer was no answer.
Pelagie's trailing, wispy hair had not yet been done that morning. Her hair had gone dead. Her brightness had flowed away, gone into the children. Thick and swollen, how changed she was from that girl with the sweet round face! All those children! All those months of vomiting, for Pelagie was sick each time. Now, feeling Miriam's gaze, Pelagie looked up. The same sweet smile came to her face. Uncomprehending and sweet.
"He's a generous husband, Miriam. You must think of that. Your lovely house and this place. Think of all the good things. I'm sure you'll learn to be happy, dear. It's within yourself, you know."
So not even with Pelagie could she open her heart and mind.
One rainy morning when f.a.n.n.y brought breakfast, Miriam saw that she had been crying. f.a.n.n.y's emotions had always reflected Miriam's joys or griefs, never her own. This startling realization flashed through Miriam's head.
"What is it, f.a.n.n.y?"
The girl struggled. "It's Blaise. The master wants to send him away."
"I don't believe it!"
"It's so. Master says there's no work for Blaise, not enough for him to do. Blaise has been crying. We've been together since we were born, Miss Miriam." f.a.n.n.y swept her ap.r.o.n up to hide her face.
"Where does he want to send him?"
"To some friend of his. I don't remember the name." f.a.n.n.y's voice was m.u.f.fled under the ap.r.o.n. "Somebody moving to Texas, he said. I don't know where Texas is, but they say it's far."
Miriam got out of bed. "Bring me a dress, f.a.n.n.y. Hurry and do my hair fast. Where is Mr. Mendes?"
"In the library he was."
Miriam trembled. She had no idea how she would do it, but she was certain on the instant of one thing: This was not going to happen to f.a.n.n.y.
Eugene was reading letters at his desk. He looked up, annoyed at the interruption.
Miriam was still trembling. Nevertheless, she demanded, "What are you doing to Blaise?"
"Doing? Oh, my G.o.d, has that f.a.n.n.y of yours gone crying to you? Don't tell me. I've been wrestling with his tears all morning."
"They have a right to their tears. Do you know what their life has been? What it was until they came to my father's house? Their father was-"
"Don't bother to tell me, please. I've heard these stories a hundred times. Misery, misery. I'm not responsible for their past miseries."
"You could help make up for them, though," she replied, surprising herself with the sharpness of her tone.
The black eyebrows slithered upward. To her farther surprise, Eugene defended himself.
"What do you want of me? I treat my people well. You've never seen me lay a hand on anyone. True or not?"
"True, but-"
"But nothing. I'm not running a charity. If I have no use for a person, I have no use. And I'm not going to keep him on, feeding and clothing him, when he's not earning his keep."
"Surely you could find something for Blaise to do. Surely the food he eats isn't going to make us poor." The pain in f.a.n.n.y's eyes drove her on; she felt f.a.n.n.y's cause as though it were her own.
"You know they all exaggerate, don't you? When they don't lie, they exaggerate. They're all hysterical. Blaise will have a good home where he's going and f.a.n.n.y will get over it. They won't die of the separation. They won't be the first brother and sister to be separated. Aren't you separated from your brother?"
"That's different, Mr. Mendes, and you know it is." This mention of David emboldened her further.
"If he were here, David would understand."
She had almost forgotten how, long ago, her brother had been fired by what had seemed an exaggerated anger. Now she remembered that fire.
"David would not do this to them," she said.
Eugene stood up. "Ah, so it's your brother, is it? You're turning out like him, are you?"
"What do you know about my brother? You've never even met him."
"No, but I've heard plenty," Eugene said grimly. "He and his loose-tongued kind don't know what they're talking about. Do you want blood to flow here? Do you want to see the house burned to the ground?"
"I don't understand you. All I asked is that you don't send Blaise away. That's all I ask. Is it so hard to do one simple kindness?"
"One so-called simple kindness after the other. Where's the money to come from? The way I feed my people-"
"Cornmeal, salt pork, and mola.s.ses."
"What should they eat, then? They eat what country people eat. Go see what a white farmer puts on his table! The poor are poor everywhere. Can we feed them all from our table?"
That was true: The poor were the poor, as they had been in the Europe that she still remembered. Here, though, the poor whites came to the door, not begging, but demanding. Under their poke bonnets the women's eyes were scornful and Eugene always gave.
"You know I do what I can," he said.
Sometimes when the fanners "got in the gra.s.s," when the weeds threatened to choke out the cotton plants, he sent them help to do their weeding and save the crop.
"You know I do what I can," he repeated, and she saw that he was agitated, that in some way she had reached him.
"Do you know how some other people treat their servants? No, I suppose you don't. Well, I'll tell you so you won't think I'm such a monster. Have you never heard of the iron collar? The head enclosed between three iron p.r.o.ngs so that the neck can't turn? Do you know that runaways have been tied naked to a tree and lashed? Or-"
"That's enough! Please."
"Well, then! I treat honorably, I trade honorably, and I don't need interference in my affairs."
She had caught a word. "You trade?"
"It's not my main business, certainly not. But once in a while if a gang should be sent down from Virginia, for instance, and I can make a quick turnover, I do. I've never dealt with smugglers or anything outside the law, and I can swear to that, which is more than some of your most respected families like your Aunt Emma's people can do."
She faltered. "But you're a Jew!"
"I am a southerner, of the South. My people have been in this country for two centuries. We old Spanish families helped to build it. Go to Charleston, to Savannah, and you'll see." He drew himself straight. "I shouldn't have allowed this discussion to go so far, and you should know a woman's place."
A woman's place! Once, perhaps more than once, during the courtship, he had admired her spirit, as on that fateful afternoon when, with Emma, she had been conducted through his house. Now all he expected of her was submission. Anger met shame and burned like fire in her throat.
Then she thought of f.a.n.n.y's sorrowful eyes. She thought of Blaise, a young man weeping, standing here before the authority of this other man, and weeping. And suddenly she knew what she had to do.
She got down on her knees. When her voice came it was so faint that Eugene had to stoop to hear it.
"Please. I beg of you. Don't send Blaise away. He could ..." She swallowed. "My time is almost here. If we have a boy you could give Blaise to him. He's a gentleman. He would be a good servant to bring up a boy."
"Get up, Mrs. Mendes, will you, for heaven's sake? Don't be dramatic." Eugene held his hand out to raise her, but she grasped the arm of the chair instead and pulled herself up.
He walked to the desk, turned over a paper, and coughed while she stood waiting.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I had not thought of that. You may be right. He would be ideal for a boy."
"You'll keep him, then? You'll tell them that?"
"I'll keep him only until we know about the child. If we have a son, then, yes, he may stay."
"Thank you, Mr. Mendes. Thank you."
So if it's a daughter, she thought, as she went upstairs, I shall simply have to think of something else. For the time being she had won.
Oh, she thought, I wish I did not know I would have to live out my life in this country, where things like this happen every day and the government allows them.
She was very, very tired, with a weariness and a confusion in the depths of her soul. Best not to think about anything more just now. Best just to close her mind and drift through the days.
Autumn, the season of russet leaves and the turkey hunt, approached. This year there was no cooling of the air; instead, the heat mounted, and in the city the Asiatic choleras appeared, adding to the annual horror of yellow fever. All who could and who had not already fled the city, did so now. But for some it was too late.
Eugene brought in a letter. "This just came by boat. It's from Rosa de Rivera-bad news. Henry's dead of the fever. They ought to have stayed longer in Saratoga. Very poor judgment."
A chill shook Miriam. This was her first experience with death. No one she knew had ever just disappeared, just vanished. Who would sit in Henry's chair at the long table? Kindly, quiet self-effacing Henry! And poor Rosa! For all her lively, brisk importance, the real source of her strength had come from Henry.
"I shall have to find myself a new lawyer," Eugene said. "Too bad. He was honest and clever. Unfortunately, those don't always go together, either." He tapped the desktop, a habit he had when making a decision. "So. We won't go back as planned on the first of the month. You'll have to be confined here. We'll summon Dr. Roget. He bought a plantation upriver after he retired. Manufactures rum. But I daresay he hasn't forgotten how to deliver a baby."
She was enormous, unable to bend and b.u.t.ton her strapped slippers.
Abby, the chambermaid, remarked darkly, "Might be you having twins, missus. I remember my Auntie Flo died birthing twins. Screamed two days and three nights before she died. It was awful, I stopped my ears. Those twins like to tore her in half before she died. You sees my Auntie Flo's boys running round here, two big healthy rascals."
f.a.n.n.y was angry. "Don't listen to her, Miss Miriam. Didn't the b.u.t.terfly sit on your arm yesterday? That's a good sign, always a good sign."