Property (Vintage Contemporaries) (7 page)

“Yes,” he said softly. “That much I can do for you.”

WHILE WE WERE at dinner, a boy arrived with a note from Dr. Landry saying there was cholera at Overton and he could not come to us until supper. “You must tell him our case is not urgent,” I said. “He will be exhausted if he has to make the trip back there before morning.”

“Why should he?” my husband said. “He can stay here and have a decent night’s sleep, instead of being up a hundred times in the night to bleed hysterical negroes.”

“You wouldn’t say so if they were your own negroes,” I observed.

“If they were my negroes, I’d move the quarter up from that swamp they’re in at Overton, and there would be no cholera, as there is none here.”

This is one of his favorite pastimes, pointing out that everyone’s troubles are their own fault and if the whole world would only submit to his excellent management, it would be an earthly paradise. It bores me past endurance. I pushed my plate away and got up from the table. “I must speak to Delphine about supper,” I said. As I went out, Sarah was coming in with a plate of rice cakes. She had a smirk on her face, pleased with herself, I thought, because Walter was going to get the doctor’s attention. I went through the house, out the back door, across the yard, and in at the kitchen. Delphine had her back to me, rolling out some dough at the table. The fire was up, the room stifling. I threw myself down in a chair, startling her momentarily. “It’s hell in here,” I said. “How can you stand it?”

“Can’t cook without fire,” she said, continuing her rolling.

“Give me a glass of water before I faint.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the pump. I seldom go into the kitchen, but whenever I do, in spite of the heat, I feel more at ease than in my own room. Delphine is the only person in this house I trust at all. She reminds me of Peek, my mother’s cook; they are both small, very dark, lively, jittery, but sensible at bottom. She brought me the water glass, wiping the rim with her apron. “They’s flour on the glass,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I said, gulping it down. She took up her pin again. “The doctor is coming to supper tonight,” I said. “It’s too hot to eat, but he probably will. He’s a big man.”

“Doctor got a good appetite,” she agreed.

“Get a ham from the smokehouse,” I said. “Just serve it cold. Cold potatoes dressed with vinegar, biscuits, pickled peaches, and applesauce. What pie are you making?”

“Rhubarb.”

“That’s so plain,” I said.

“I can mix in some strawberries.”

“All right,” I said. “Serve some whipped cream with it. It will have to do.” I went through my keys. “Here’s the smokehouse key,” I said, laying it on the end of the table. “Send it back with Sarah when you’re done.”

“Yes, missus,” she said.

I thought I would get up to go, but I felt so languid I didn’t move. I looked out the door at the yard. A chicken walked by. Everything felt peaceful; then I recalled why.

“Where’s Walter?” I said.

“Out running ’round,” she said.

“Is that safe?”

“Rose look after him,” she said.

“It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the property.”

Delphine draped her dough over the pie pan and turned to look into a pot on the hearth.

“Make sure he’s inside by supper,” I said. “The doctor is going to examine him.”

“Yes, missus,” she said.

I got up and stretched, then wandered out into the yard. I couldn’t take the hot kitchen another minute. I was thinking about the man, but I wasn’t going to say anything to Delphine about him. Perhaps he was her lover. I walked out to the oak where I had seen him and looked among the roots for any shoe prints or anything he might have dropped, but there was nothing. I stood exactly where I thought he had stood and looked up at the house. I could see my bedroom window—one curtain was fluttering half outside in the breeze—and my husband’s window as well. When I looked at the kitchen yard I could see right into the open door. By turning a little, I could see the top of the mill and the dirt road running to the quarter. Quite an excellent command post.

I looked back at my own window. The curtains seemed to be moving against something heavy, then they parted and Sarah appeared, holding her baby. She saw me at once, but she didn’t start or turn away. She just stood there, her dress half-opened, looking down at me coolly. She’s a nerveless creature, I thought. There really is something inhuman about her. After a few moments I grew weary of looking at her and went back into the house.

DR. LANDRY IS a walking newspaper. He knows everything that is happening from St. Francisville to Pointe à la Hache. All through supper he dispensed interesting gossip, yet he still managed to eat nearly half a ham. The cholera at Overton is confined to the quarters; of sixty-three taken, sixteen have died. It is worse in New Orleans, and there is yellow fever there as well. The hospital is full, the hotels empty. Mrs. Pemberly, near Clinton, has scarlet fever and is so weak the doctor does not expect her to live. The lawsuit her daughter-in-law brought against her son has proved successful and she anticipates the loss of half her property. Two negroes have drowned in False River. They had passes to visit their families and, seeing a skiff in the weeds, must have thought to arrive with a fish dinner, but the boat proved leaky and they turned dinner for the fishes. Two runaways were captured at St. Francisville, walking around drunk in broad daylight. There was a fire at Mr. Winthrop’s gin at Greenwood, set by his own negroes. One of the culprits informed on the others and escaped beating. The fire consumed eighty bales of cotton as well. There are so many rumors of planned uprisings at Bayou Sara that the authorities have banned all church meetings of any kind, as it seems one of the preachers may be responsible for inciting the negroes. One story has it that there are three hundred runaways hidden in the low country near there and that they plan to march down the river road killing every white person they find.

“They would come right past here,” my husband exclaimed on hearing this.

“That they would,” Dr. Landry agreed. “If the rumors are true.”

“I will inform my meeting,” my husband said, solemn and pompous as an ass. This is how rumors turn into dead negroes.

After supper Dr. Landry agreed to examine Walter, who was described as “a boy we have here.” My husband expressed the hope that some use might be made of the child as a servant, which was entirely news to me. My heart raced with anger, then I imagined Walter pitching dishes out the window and dumping mashed potatoes on the carpet, a thought I found so amusing it calmed me down. They agreed the examination would take place in my husband’s office, and Sarah was dispatched to bring the creature there. I made my excuses to the gentlemen, and said good night to the doctor at the dining room door, but instead of going to my room, I went back to the table. After a few minutes, Sarah came in to clear up. She was doubtless vexed to see me still sitting there.

“Pour me a glass of that port the gentlemen found so edifying,” I said, and she did. Then I sat quietly for some time, drinking the port and thinking over the news the doctor had brought us. What interested me most was the success of Sally Pemberly’s lawsuit against her husband. She divorced him some years ago, because he was so cruel even the servants pitied her. He then ran up large gambling debts, bankrupting himself as well as his family. Sally sued to have her marriage portion, which was considerable, exempted from his creditors and restored to her. By some miracle, she has won. Now she has her own income and she is free of her detestable husband. Fortunate woman!

I WOKE UP with a start, thinking someone was standing next to my bed, but there was no one there. Had I heard a sound? The room was black. I could make out the curtains at the window but little else. At once I remembered the man. I pulled back the net and sat on the edge of the bed, groggy but determined, shaking my head to clear it. Then I went to the window.

It was like looking into the inkwell. I could make out the shape of the oak, but only as texture, like black velvet against black silk. Was there something among the roots? I dropped down to my knees, as I thought my white shift, my light hair, made me visible, and gazed long and hard. Still my eyes failed to penetrate the darkness. Did something move, there, near the house? Listen, I told myself and I closed my eyes, listening as what had seemed like silence unraveled into different sounds, the buzz of insects, the clock in the hall, something scratching in the wall, the rustling of leaves and branches, and then, just beyond my own heartbeat, not near or loud, but sudden and unmistakable, the sound of a rifle shot.

My eyes flew open. I jumped up and ran for the bedroom door, but I tripped over a footstool and fell headlong across the carpet. As I got to my feet, I heard a shout from outside, then my husband’s voice, cursing. I opened my bedroom door just as his door was opened. A lamp sputtered, someone came out into the hall. It was Sarah. I stepped behind the door, laying my cheek against the wood, listening as she hurried toward the landing.

Another door opened, the doctor’s. He spoke to her, she answered, but I couldn’t make out what they said. There was more light, the heavy sound of my husband’s boots, then his voice. “They’ve set the mill on fire,” he said, and Dr. Landry replied, “I’ll dress and join you.” My husband was halfway down the stairs. “Stay in your bed,” he called back. “There are hands enough.”

How could the mill be on fire? I’d just been looking toward it. I felt my way to my dresser, lit the lamp, and went to the window. It was true. There were no flames, but there was a deep red glow to the blackness in that direction. I heard shouts downstairs, my husband appeared on the lawn, running, and from the quarter two men bearing torches came running to meet him. The doctor’s door opened again, his footsteps faded as he hurried downstairs. After a few moments he too appeared below me, walking briskly toward the fire.

My heart smote me. It was this way that night: the sounds of doors opening and closing, the clatter of boots on the stairs. But it was different too. It was clear and cold. When I woke up and looked out my window, I could see the flames and smoke billowing up above the trees. I never did see Father leave the house, and I never did see him again. I heard Mother’s voice, then a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, more doors closing, someone riding away. I leaped from my bed and ran into the hall calling for Mother, but she didn’t answer. I found her in the parlor with our housemaid Celeste; they had only one lamp lit between them and the room was cold. Mother’s crochet hook glinted amid the lace she was frantically working. Celeste was darning a sock. I wanted to throw myself in Mother’s lap, but I knew she would scold me. “What is happening?” I said. Mother looked up, hollow-eyed, her mouth in a grim line, shadows from the lamp playing over her cheeks. She’s frightened, I thought. She’s more frightened than I am.