Darkest Hour

  But I didn't hate her for her behavior anymore. Something had happened inside me because of the birth of Charlotte and the death of Mamma. Anger and intolerance were replaced by pity and patience. I had finally come to realize that Emily was the most pitiful of the three of us. Even poor and sickly Eugenia had been better off, for she had been able to enjoy some of this world, some of its beauty and warmth, whereas Emily was incapable of anything but unhappiness and sorrow. She belonged in graveyards. She had been moving about like a mortician since the day she could walk. She draped herself in shadows and found security and comfort alone, wrapped tightly in her Biblical stories and words, best repeated under gray skies.

  The funeral and its aftermath provided another excuse for Papa to drink his whiskey. He sat with his card-playing friends and swallowed glass after glass of bourbon until he fell asleep in his chair. Over the next few days, Papa underwent a dramatic change in his habits and behavior. For one thing, he no longer rose early in the morning and was at the breakfast table when I arrived. He started arriving late. One morning, he didn't arrive at all and I asked Emily where he was. She simply glared at me and shook her head. Then she muttered one of her prayers under her breath.

  "What is it, Emily?" I demanded.

  "Papa is succumbing to the devil, a little more every day," she declared.

  I nearly laughed. How could Emily not see that Papa had been trafficking with Satan for some time now? How could she excuse his drinking and his gambling and his deplorable activities when he was away from home on his so-called business trips? Was she really blinded and fooled by his hypocritical religious surface while he was home? She knew what he had done to me and yet she tried to excuse it by placing all the blame on me and the devil. What about his responsibility?

  What finally bothered Emily was that Papa had given up even his hypocrisy. He wasn't at the breakfast table to say the morning prayers and he wasn't reading his Bible. He was drinking himself to sleep every night and when he rose, he didn't dress himself neatly. He didn't shave; he didn't even look clean anymore. As soon as he was able to, he would leave the house to go to his haunts where he gambled the night away, playing cards in smoke-filled rooms. We knew that there were women of ill repute in these places too, women whose sole purpose was to entertain and give pleasure to the men.

  The drinking, carousing and gambling stole away Papa's attention from the business of running The Meadows. Weeks passed with the workers complaining about not receiving their wages. Charles tried to repair and maintain the old and tired equipment, but he was like the boy trying to keep the dike intact by holding his finger in the leaking hole. Every time he brought another complaint or another bit of depressing news to Papa, Papa would rant and rage and blame it on the Northerners or the foreigners. It usually ended with him drinking himself into a stupor and nothing being done, no new problem solved.

  Gradually, The Meadows began to look like the neglected old plantations that were either deserted or destroyed by the Civil War. With no money to whitewash the fences and barns, with fewer and fewer employees willing to wait out Papa's fits of tantrum and periods of procrastination when it came to paying them their rightful wages, The Meadows choked and stumbled until there was barely an income to keep what little we had left going.

  Emily, rather than criticize Papa openly, decided instead to find ways to economize and save in the house. She ordered Vera to serve cheaper and cheaper meals. Most sections of the house were kept dark and cold and weren't even dusted anymore. A pall fell over what had once been a proud and beautiful Southern home.

  Memories of Mamma's grand barbecues, the elaborate dinner parties, the sound of laughter and music, all dwindled, retreated into the shadows and locked themselves between the covers of photograph albums. The piano fell out of tune, the drapes began to sag with dust and grime, the once beautiful landscape of flowers and bushes succumbed to the invasion of weeds.

  All that remained interesting and beautiful for me was gone, but I had baby Charlotte and I helped Mrs. Clark care for her. Together we watched her develop until she took her first step and uttered her first discernible word. It wasn't Mamma or Papa. It was Lil . . . Lil.

  "How wonderful and proper that your name be the first sensible sound on her lips," Mrs. Clark declared. Of course, she didn't know how wonderful and proper it really was, although I thought at times that she knew more than she pretended to know. How could she look at my face when I held Charlotte or played with her or fed her and not realize that Charlotte was my child and not my sister? And how could she see the way Papa avoided the baby and not think it strange?

  Oh, he did some of the very basic things. He stopped by occasionally to see Charlotte dressed in something pretty or see her take her first steps. He even had a photographer take pictures of his "three" children, but for the most part, he treated Charlotte like some ward he had been assigned.

  A month or so after Mamma's passing, I returned to school. Miss Walker was still the teacher and she was quite surprised at how well I had kept up with my learning. In fact, it wasn't more than a few months before she had me working beside her, teaching the younger children and functioning as her teacher's aide. Emily no longer attended school and was not interested in the things I did there, nor was Papa.

  But all that came to an abrupt end when Charlotte was a little more than two. Papa announced at dinner that he was going to have to let Mrs. Clark go.

  "We can't afford her anymore," he declared. "Lillian, you and Emily and Vera will look after the baby from now on."

  "But what about my schoolwork, Papa? I was thinking of becoming a teacher myself."

  "That will have to stop," he said. "Until things improve."

  But I knew things would never improve. Papa had lost interest in his own business affairs and spent most of his time gambling and drinking. He had aged years in months. Gray strands invaded his hair; his cheeks and chin drooped and there were dark circles and sacks under his eyes.

  Gradually, he began to sell away most of the rich south field. The land he didn't sell he rented out, and remained satisfied with the piddling income that resulted. But he no sooner had some money in his hands than he rushed out to gamble it away at some card game.

  Neither Emily nor I knew just how desperate things were until he returned home late one night after an evening of drinking and card playing and went into the den. Emily and I were both awakened by the sound of a pistol shot reverberating through the house. I felt my blood drain down into my feet. My heart began to pound. I sat up quickly and listened, but heard only deadly silence. I put on my robe and slippers and ran out of my room, meeting Emily in the hallway.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "It came from downstairs," she said. Then she gave me one dark, foreboding look and we both descended the stairway, Emily carrying a candle because we had taken to keeping the downstairs dark after we had all retired for the evening.

  Flickering light came from the open door. My heart thumping, I walked a few steps behind Emily and entered with her. There we found Papa slumped on the couch, his smoking pistol in hand. He wasn't dead nor was he wounded. He had tried to take his own life, but had lifted the barrel of the pistol from his temple at the last moment and shot the bullet into the far wall.

  "What is it? What happened, Papa?" Emily demanded. "Why are you sitting there with that pistol?"

  "I might as well be dead," he said. "As soon as I get the strength, I'm going to try again," he whined in a voice that sounded so unlike him, I had to look twice.

  "No you won't," Emily snapped. She snatched the pistol from his hand. "Suicide is a sin. Thou shalt not kill."

  He lifted his pathetic eyes at her. I never saw him so weak and defeated.

  "You don't know what I've gone and done, Emily. You don't know."

  "Then tell me," she said sharply.

  "I gambled away The Meadows in a card game. I've lost my family heritage," he moaned. "To a man named Cutler. And he's not even a farmer. He runs a h
otel at the beach," he said disdainfully.

  He looked up at me, and despite all he had done to me and to Mamma, I could only pity him.

  "I've gone and done it now, Lillian," he said. "The man can turn us all out in the cold any time he wants."

  All Emily could do was begin to mutter one of her prayers.

  "That's ridiculous," I said. "Something as big and as important as The Meadows can't be lost in a card game. It just can't." Papa's eyes widened with surprise. "I'm sure we'll find a way to stop it from happening," I declared with so much certainty and authority that I even surprised myself. "Now go to sleep, Papa, and in the morning, with a clear head, you'll find a way to solve the problem."

  Then I pivoted and left him sitting there, his mouth agape, not sure myself why it was suddenly so important to protect this degenerating, old Southern plantation that had been a prison as well as a home to me. One thing was for sure—it wasn't important because it was the home of the Booths.

  Maybe it was important because it had been Henry's home, and Louella's and Eugenia's and Mamma's. Maybe it was important for itself, for the spring mornings full of chattering mockingbirds and blue jays, for the magnolia blossoms in the yard and the wisteria tumbling over the old verandas. Maybe it didn't deserve what was happening to it.

  But I had no idea how to save it. I had no idea how to save myself.

  14

  THE PAST IS LOST AND THE FUTURE IS FOUND

  During the next few days, Papa made no more mention of his loss of The Meadows in a single hand of poker. I thought perhaps he had pulled himself together and found a way to solve his problem. But one morning at breakfast, he cleared his throat, tugged on his mustache and announced, "Bill Cutler will be stopping by this afternoon to look over the house and property."

  "Bill Cutler?" Emily asked, her eyebrows rising. She wasn't fond of us having visitors, especially if they were strangers.

  "The man who won the plantation from me," Papa replied, nearly choking on his words. He shook his clenched fist in front of his face. "If I could only get a stake together, I could go back into a poker game and win the debt back as quickly as I lost it."

  "Gambling is sinful," Emily pronounced with a dour expression.

  "I know what's sinful and what ain't. It's sinful to lose my family plantation. That's what's sinful," Papa roared, but Emily didn't even wince. She didn't retreat an inch, nor did she change her condescending posture. In a battle of stares, Emily was unbeatable. Papa shifted his eyes away and chewed his food angrily.

  "If this man lives in Virginia Beach, Papa, why would he want a plantation out here anyway?" I asked.

  "To sell it off, you fool," he snapped.

  Maybe it was the example of Emily sitting so firmly and assuredly across the table, or maybe it was my own growing sense of confidence. Whatever it was, I didn't retreat.

  "The market for tobacco is depressed, especially for the smaller farmers; our buildings are in need of repair. Most of the equipment is old and tired. Charles is always complaining about things breaking down now. We don't have half as many cows and chickens to provide for us as we used to have. The gardens and fountains as well as all the hedges have been neglected for months and months. Even the house cries out for attention. Finding people to buy another old, poor plantation isn't going to be easy for him," I pointed out.

  "Yeah, well, that's all true," Papa admitted. "It ain't gonna bring no fortune, that's for sure, but whatever it brings him is found money, ain't it? Besides, when you meet him, you'll see he's just the type who likes to toy with other people's lives and possessions. He don't need the money," Papa muttered.

  "He sounds dreadful," I said. Papa's eyes widened. "Yeah, well don't go gettin' him upset when he stops by. I want to be able to deal with the man, hear?" "As far as I'm concerned, I don't have to see him at all," I said, and I really intended to avoid meeting him. I would have eluded him, too, if Papa hadn't brought him around to Charlotte's nursery while I was playing with the baby. We were both on the floor, Charlotte fascinated with one of Mamma's pearl-handled hairbrushes I had been using to brush her hair. Every time I was with her, I forgot everyone and everything else. I was overwhelmed by the force that swept over me, reminding me I was touching and kissing a child born of my flesh. So I didn't hear footsteps in the hallway nor realize anyone was watching me.

  "Well, who's this?" I heard someone say, and I looked at the doorway where Papa stood with the tall, tanned stranger. He gazed down at me with dark, impish eyes, a wry smile on his lips. He was slim and wide-shouldered, with long arms and graceful hands, hands that showed no signs of hard work but instead looked as manicured and cared for as a woman's hands. Later, I would discover that any calluses he had were calluses that came from his sailing, which also explained his dark skin.

  "These are my other two daughters," Papa said. "The baby's name is Charlotte and that's Lillian." Papa jerked his eyes toward the ceiling to command me to stand and greet the stranger properly. Reluctantly, I got to my feet, smoothed out my skirt and stepped forward.

  "Hello, there, Lillian. I'm Bill Cutler," he said, extending his smooth fingers. I took his hand and shook it, but he didn't let go of mine immediately. Instead, he widened his smile and drank me in, gazing up from my feet slowly and lingering over my breasts and face.

  "Hello," I said. Gently, but firmly, I pulled my hand from his.

  "You've got the baby-sitting duty, do you?" he asked. I looked at Papa, who remained stiff, his eyes fixed on me as he tugged nervously on his mustache.

  "I share the responsibility with our housekeeper Vera and my sister Emily," I replied quickly, but before I could turn away, he spoke again.

  "I bet the baby likes being with you the most," he said.

  "I like being with her."

  "That's it; that's it. And an infant senses that. I've seen it with some of the families who come to my hotel. I've got a very fine place on the ocean," he bragged.

  "That's nice," I said with as much disinterest as I could muster. But he wasn't deterred. He remained as steadfast as a tree. I lifted Charlotte into my arms. She stared with interest at Bill Cutler, but his attention was fixed firmly on me.

  "I bet your father never takes you girls on a motor trip to the beach, does he?"

  "We don't have time for pleasure trips," Papa said quickly.

  "No, I guess you don't, losing the way you do at cards," Bill Cutler said. Papa's face reddened. His nostrils twitched and his lips tightened, but he kept the explosion of indignation buried inside him. "Of course, that's a shame for you and your sisters, Lillian," Bill Cutler said, turning back to me. "Young women should be able to go to the beach, especially pretty young women," he added, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  "Papa's right," I said. "We have a lot to do around here since the farm has gone into a deep depression," I said. "We haven't been able to afford the upkeep and we have to make do with what we have."

  Papa's eyes widened, but I thought I would do my share to make The Meadows seem more like a burden than a blessing.

  "It seems that every day something else breaks down or something else goes wrong. Right, Papa?"

  "What?" He cleared his throat. "Yes."

  "Well, it appears you have a very bright young lady in your family, Jed," he said with a grin. "You've kept her quite a secret . . . quite a secret. What do you say you lend her to me for a little while?"

  "What?" I asked quickly. He laughed.

  "To show me around," he explained. "I bet you will give me a better and more informative tour than Jed here will. Jed?"

  "She's got to watch the baby," Papa said.

  "Oh come on now, Jed. You can spell her for an hour or so. It would make me a lot happier," he added, fixing his dark eyes on Papa this time. Papa looked uncomfortable. He hated being in this fix, being squeezed and pressured and controlled, but he could only nod.

  "All right. Lillian, you take Mr. Cutler around. Show him what he wants to see. I'll send Vera in here to watch Cha
rlotte," Papa said. Fuming, he left to fetch Vera.

  "My father knows more about the plantation than I do," I complained, and set the baby in her playpen.

  "Maybe. Maybe not. I ain't a fool. Anyone can see he's not been as attentive to his place as he should have been." He stepped closer to me, so close I felt his breath on the back of my neck. "You do a lot around here, I bet, don't you?"

  "I do my chores," I said, reaching down to give the baby one of her toys. I didn't want to look at Bill Cutler. I was uncomfortable under such male scrutiny. When Bill Cutler gazed at me, he gazed at all of me, his eyes traveling up and down my body every time he spoke. I felt just like one of the slave girls must have felt on the auction block.

  "And what are those chores? Besides looking after your baby sister, that is?"

  "I help Papa with his bookkeeping," I said. Bill Cutler's smile widened.

  "I thought you might be doing something like that. You look like a very smart young woman, Lillian. I bet you know his assets and liabilities to the penny."

  "I know only what Papa wants me to know," I said quickly. He shrugged.

  "Ain't found a woman yet who let a man control what she wants to know or do, if she's got a mind to do it or know it," he teased. He had a way of rolling his eyes and pressing his lips together that made everything he said seem to have a second, and more licentious, meaning. I was happy to see Vera come to the doorway.

  "The Captain sent me," she said.

  "The Captain?" Bill Cutler repeated, and he laughed. "Who's the Captain?"

  "Mr. Booth," she replied.

  "Captain of what? A sinking ship?" He laughed again. Then he held out his arm for me to take. "Miss Booth?"

  I shot a glance at Vera who looked confused and annoyed, and then, reluctantly, I took Bill Cutler's arm and let him lead me away.

  "Shall we examine the grounds first?" he asked when we reached the entryway.

  "Whatever pleases you, Mr. Cutler," I said.