A sour odor rose from the mass at Suzette’s feet, threatening to wrench her stomach again, and she pushed herself up. It was the fourth time this week she had been forced out to the bushes before the plantation bell rang. There was breakfast to prepare, but all she wanted was to lie down right where she was, close her eyes, and sleep.
A morning breeze helped center her. Eugene Daurat was coming again today. He had become a regular visitor of the Derbannes, bringing her small things from time to time and giving them to her in the woods: a leftover piece of cloth from his store for a kerchief, a hard candy, the stump of a candle. In the big house she was invisible to him.
Since the quarter Christmas party, he sought her out whenever it struck his fancy. He would tell her to meet him after supper at the rock or to wait for him beyond the edge of the piney woods in the afternoon, and she would go. He barely spoke, and he did not expect her to do much of anything except lie or stand until he was finished with her. Each time they were together in that way, he would say, “Merci, ma chère.”
Suzette tried to figure out what the doll man meant by those words. If he was thanking her, did that mean he thought she had a say in whether or not to obey his instruction to meet him? That she could say out loud that she did not want to lie down in secret while he fumbled and sometimes hurt her? Ma chère. No matter how often she played back the words, trying to hear a new tone or emphasis, his true intent was just beyond her grasp. Was she dear to him? When she went to him she transported herself to the smooth rhythm of shelling peas while her mother hummed in the cookhouse or the sleepy-eyed reassurance of Nicolas Mulon’s face. Just until he stopped moving on her and it was time to get back to work.
Questioning him was unthinkable. He was a grown man, a white man, and a close friend of the Derbannes’. She couldn’t talk to her mother. She couldn’t talk to Oreline, who prattled on about her older cousin Eugene’s visits, how interesting he was, how entertaining. The secret rendezvous were not like the prickly tingling Nicolas Mulon could set off in her. Those feelings scared her, too, but they had been full of possibilities. This was heavy, like the old rotted oak tree she had seen fall across the road near the front gate that took days and many men to carve up and move aside. She thought about talking to Palmire about the tangle of hope, despair, and emptiness that came to her whenever she saw Eugene Daurat or even heard his name, but there were no signs in the language they had created between them to describe these feelings. What could her sister tell her, even if she could speak? Palmire had her own worries with Louis Derbanne’s nighttime visits.
It was months before she stopped puzzling over the hidden meaning of Eugene Daurat’s “Merci, ma chère.” The words meant only that he was done with her and it was time for her to go away and resume her chores under Françoise’s watchful eye in the big house or her mother’s in the cookhouse. But her daily routine had come to seem small and meaningless next to this other thing that was spreading out and taking hold of her body. She wondered if either Françoise or her mother, who both seemed to be able to see the smallest thing out of place in the big house, could see this, too.
When her birthday month came around again in the summer she would be fourteen. She could still recall the delicious taste of turning nine, when it was possible to strike out in a direction of her own choosing, and Oreline and Narcisse would follow, open to whatever came next. It had begun to feel like a suspect memory that must have happened to someone else.
* * *
“Pay attention to what you’re doing,” Françoise snapped, catching Suzette on the side of the head with her knuckles.
Lately she was getting as many swats, slaps, and pinches as Palmire used to when she worked in the house, before she had been banished to the field. Suzette burned the bread. She scorched one of Louis Derbanne’s shirt collars and mixed up the salt and sugar. The delicate blue-and-white figurine in the front room that Eugene Daurat had brought as a gift from France had smashed into so many pieces when she dropped it that there was no hope of repair. She forgot to clean out the wall altar in the Derbannes’ bedroom.
Her life had traveled far beyond her understanding. The picture in her mind of standing in front of St. Augustine with Nicolas Mulon and being married by a real priest was obviously hopeless. Try as she might, she couldn’t create an image of a future with Eugene Daurat in it. He could never marry her, even if he wanted to. Not only was it against the law, it was unspeakable. She had no new dreams to replace her old ones.
The longer she hid her secret, the greater the distance between her and everyone else, as if they were all on the close side of Cane River and she was on the opposite bank, alone. The thought of the baby frightened her but gave her comfort, too. It was a concrete thing that belonged only to her.
Suzette let each day drift, holding on to time. Shortly after the cotton reached a foot high in the field, Elisabeth cornered her in the cookhouse.
“Looks like you’re eating for more than one, Suzette.”
“Uh-huh,” Suzette answered from her faraway place.
“Who’s the man?”
Suzette brought herself back, eyeing her mother cautiously. “Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered.
“You can’t hide it. Who’s the man?”
“I did not want to, Mère.”
“Is he white?”
Suzette tried to speak and found she could not. She stared down at her hands.
“The world didn’t start with you, Suzette. I’ve been through it. In Virginia, with the Master’s son, before coming here.” Elisabeth put down the rolling pin. “It’s Eugene Daurat, isn’t it? Looking at you like you’re some new Louisiana sweetmeat to try.”
“Yes,” Suzette said in a small voice.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not much after the first time. I don’t know. He chose me.”
Elisabeth let out a low moan, a strangled sound steeped in resignation. “Oh, baby girl,” she said.
“What do I do now?” Suzette asked.
“Your stomach twist up in the morning?”
“Yes’m.”
“This baby is already caught. We wait for the quickening, to make sure it’s going to stay caught.”
Elisabeth came around the worktable and pulled Suzette close, wrapping her big arms around Suzette’s shoulders, rocking her slowly from side to side. Suzette stiffened, but Elisabeth didn’t let go. After a time Suzette sank into the warmth and smells of her mother, and they rocked together.
“This is what our life is, baby girl. It didn’t stop me from loving those babies of mine in Virginia.”
An urgent coldness shot through Suzette. She did not want to hear what had happened to her mother. She pushed herself away, picked up the sharp kitchen knife, and busied herself chopping the okra, separating the hard green caps from the stalks on the cutting board.
Elisabeth turned to stir the stew simmering in the kettle. “If I can see your condition, it won’t be long before others do, too. When that Frenchman comes at you again, you tell him about this baby, that he should be leaving you alone now. We need to make sure that Madame knows it wasn’t M’sieu. You turn up with a high-yellow baby without warning, there’s no telling what she could do. It’s bad enough trying to keep Palmire away from her. You just do your work. I’ll go to her tomorrow.”
* * *
Françoise left a trail of damp footprints as she came into the stranger’s room, where Suzette had just finished scrubbing the floorboards. Françoise stared openly at the beginnings of a gentle rounding under the fabric of Suzette’s thin gingham dress.
“Elisabeth came to see me,” she began stiffly. “You were brought up better. We did not give permission for you to start a family yet. Who is the father?”
Suzette hung her head.
“You hear me, girl? I didn’t bring you up to the house so you could slide back and be like Palmire. Who is the father?”
Françoise’s tone had become loud and insistent, and she grabbed Suzette’s arm
. They were alone in the room, and Suzette was suddenly afraid.
“It was M’sieu Daurat. He told me not to say anything,” Suzette said quietly.
Françoise gripped her more tightly. “It wasn’t anyone from Rosedew?”
“No, Madame, I’m sure.”
“Has there been anyone else? Do not lie to me, or I can get you put out to field like your sister.” Françoise’s narrowed eyes were menacing.
“There’s only been M’sieu Daurat,” Suzette said, her voice small and timid.
Françoise loosened her hold. “Another little mulatto mouth to feed.” Françoise spat out the word mulatto as though she had gotten hold of one of the bitter herbs she used for doctoring. “We gave you every opportunity, Suzette. This is not the Christian way. You people cannot help yourselves, I suppose.”
“Oui, Madame.”
* * *
Suzette had trouble concentrating on her work for the rest of the day, afraid of what would come next. She was jittery throughout the evening, just wanting to lie down on her pallet without having to face anyone else, answer any more questions.
“You are so quiet, Suzette,” Oreline said that evening when the two girls were alone in the bedroom. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, Mam’zelle.”
“You have been acting odd of late. You can tell me. I tell you everything.”
“There’s nothing, Mam’zelle.”
“It’s first Friday,” Oreline said conspiratorially. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Mam’zelle.”
Oreline became solemn. Unsmiling, she extended her bare right foot and touched the flat of her heel to the wooden base of the four-poster bed, closing her eyes.
“Today, the first Friday of the month, I place my foot on the footboard and I pray the great Saint Nicholas to make me meet the one I am to marry,” she recited soberly. Then she jumped into her bed without touching the floor, lay down on her right side, her hand over her heart, and made herself still so she could fall asleep without talking, without laughing, without moving.
Suzette lowered the mosquito bar over her and blew out the candles.
* * *
The next morning, as Suzette came back from the cookhouse, she almost ran into Françoise in the narrow hallway coming out of Oreline’s room.
“Suzette,” Françoise said tautly as she brushed past, and Suzette dropped her eyes and curtsied.
Oreline was standing beside the armoire, and Suzette went over to help her tighten the stays in her corset, trying to gauge Oreline’s mood. Oreline seemed sulky and silent, anger collecting in her face as if it were building up to a storm.
“Aunt Françoise told me about the baby,” she said, her words clipped.
There was nothing for Suzette to say. She removed Oreline’s gray-and-black-plaid dress from the armoire.
“Why did you go with him?”
“I can only do what I am told, Mam’zelle.”
“How long has it been going on? Since he came to Cane River?” The on-the-edge pitch Suzette recognized from childhood was mixed with something new.
“He found me alone at Christmastime,” Suzette said tiredly.
“What did you do to make him come to you?”
“He followed me. I did nothing. I was wearing my christening dress.” Suzette didn’t know why she had added the last part. As if what she was wearing mattered.
“Did you want to make a baby with him?” Oreline pushed.
“No.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No.”
“If you didn’t want this to happen, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know, Mam’zelle.”
“I tell you about everything important that happens to me.” The new tone again. “I could have helped you. I have always been the one to help you.”
“What could you have done?” Suzette asked, her tongue heavy and dull. “What could anyone have done?”
“You didn’t even tell me. Aunt Françoise knew before I did.” Oreline’s voice broke, midway between a whine and an accusation. She turned her face away, and several minutes passed before she spoke again.
“Don’t think for a minute that now that you’ve been found out you can come to me for anything,” Oreline said haughtily. “I need for you to get my bonnet. I’m going out visiting with Aunt Françoise today.”
Suzette was dismissed from Oreline’s heart.
* * *
Suzette carried the full coffee service into the front room and set it down with care on the sideboard. Her belly jutted out bigger and rounder than the ripe watermelons they cracked open in summer, and cramps had stitched her in waves all morning. Slowly, with effort, she moved across the room and placed freshly pressed white linen napkins in the laps of Oreline and Françoise.
“We’ll have to bring Apphia in soon to replace Suzette,” Françoise remarked to Oreline. “Louis won’t spare Palmire from the field.”
Suzette began to pour steaming coffee into the fragile cups, allowing her thoughts to linger on the pleasing idea of thirty days away from the big house in Palmire’s cabin after the baby came.
Oreline gave a sideways glance at Suzette. “You know, Aunt Françoise, I intend to miss Cousin Eugene desperately when he leaves. He is my favorite dance partner.”
Suzette listened, as she knew Oreline intended her to. She knew nothing of Eugene Daurat leaving. Oreline no longer confided in her about the comings and goings of Cane River’s Creoles.
“He’ll come back to us when he finishes his business in France,” Françoise said, leaning forward to settle her sewing kit on the side table. “With wonderful presents, no doubt.”
Suzette watched Françoise’s napkin slide in a deliberate line from her lap to a tangle near her feet. With an awkward twist she bent toward the floor to retrieve the cloth. Deep inside something shifted, and Suzette felt a warm gushing down her thighs.
“Ohhhhh.” The sound escaped before she could stop it. “I think it’s my time,” she moaned. Panicky, she looked up at Françoise.
Françoise sprang to her feet, ordering Oreline to get Old Bertram and the wagon.
Suzette remembered being taken down to Palmire’s cabin in the quarter, she remembered waiting for the midwife to arrive, and she remembered the curious taste of the cloves and whiskey Françoise offered. More than anything else, for the next twenty-four hours Suzette remembered the pain.
Afternoon dragged into evening. They lit candles and waited, the midwife next to Suzette wiping her forehead and neck with a damp rag and Françoise sitting on a straight-backed pine chair by the fireplace, her shawl gathered around her shoulders. Overseeing the birth of slaves was her responsibility on Rosedew, and she took her role seriously. Elisabeth brought a simple supper for the two women and a pot of copal moss soaked in boiling water for Suzette. Françoise poured whiskey in the pot, and the women got Suzette to drink it down. They waited. Suzette’s screams pierced the dark night of quiet in the quarter, and still the baby had not come with the ringing of the plantation bell the next morning. A little before noon a baby boy finally emerged in a spill of earthen color, dappled with red. They wrapped him in his new blanket and handed him to Suzette. His name will be Philomon, from the Bible, Suzette thought, but she could focus on his buff-colored face for only the briefest moment before she descended into an all-consuming sleep.
* * *
The sun had gone down by the time Suzette woke. She smelled the biting scent of laurel leaves on Elisabeth’s hands as her mother shook her firmly by the shoulders, and she struggled to open her eyes. For a moment, as Elisabeth’s dark and unchanging face came into focus, Suzette felt safe. Palmire was near the fireplace, just in from the field, sweat and tiredness still clinging to her. She moved heavily on her feet as she ground a corn paste for ashcakes, her belly bulging. Palmire’s own child would be coming soon.
Suzette stared a
t the whimpering bundle next to her on the cot. “Time to feed your boy,” Elisabeth prodded, opening the front of Suzette’s shirtwaist and settling the fretting baby at Suzette’s breast. He fussed for only a minute before finding Suzette’s nipple and pulling at it greedily.
“His name is Philomon,” Suzette announced weakly, looking down at the contorted face, stroking the fine dark hair plastered to his head.
“They going to call this one Gerant,” Elisabeth said. “Madame already gave him the name.”
“But he’s mine,” Suzette said shakily.
“His out-loud name is Gerant,” Elisabeth repeated deliberately. “That has to fit him.”
Elisabeth crossed the room to the fireplace and tapped Palmire on the shoulder to get her attention, then made a drinking motion with her hands. Palmire nodded, poured steaming liquid from the small dented pot over the hot coals into a cup, and handed it to Elisabeth. Elisabeth came back to the cot where Suzette nursed the baby.
“This laurel tea will do you good, and Palmire will have supper up directly,” Elisabeth said, bringing the cup to Suzette’s lips. “You must be starving.” She tucked the blanket around the infant. “We love all our children in this family, no matter how they come to us. You be careful not to roll over that baby. Palmire will show you what you need to know. I can’t stay.”
Long after she left, Suzette stared through half-shut eyes at the closed door until Palmire took the baby away and brought the ashcakes.
* * *
For the next few days the constant thread weaving in and out of Suzette’s wake-sleep was Gerant, always crying. Suzette cried, too. It became difficult to tell the difference. She couldn’t walk or sit up in bed in the same position for long, and the thoughts that had always chased one another around in her head were gone. There was only sleep, pain, nursing, rocking, and more crying.