Darkest Hour

  The cream-colored walls glowed; the mahogany and hickory furniture gleamed. The washed and polished floors glistened like glass, and the rugs were scrubbed until they looked fresh and new. A warm breeze flowed unchecked throughout the house, bringing with it the fragrance of gardenias, jasmine and early roses.

  I loved our festive barbecues because there wasn't a corner in or out of the house that didn't have conversation and laughter going on within it. The plantation had an opportunity to show itself off, to be what it could be. It was like a sleeping giant that came out of hibernation. Papa never looked as handsome and proud of his heritage.

  Cooking preparations had all begun the night before when the barbecue pits had been lit. Now they all had beds of red embers with the meats spinning on pits and the juices dropping and hissing on the hot coals. Outside, the aromas of burning hickory logs and roasting pork and mutton filled everyone's nostrils. All of Papa's hound dogs and all the barn cats hovered around the perimeters of activity, longing for the moment when they would be tossed the leftovers and scraps.

  Behind the barn, not far from Cotton's grave, there was a separate barbecue pit where the house servants and farm laborers would gather with the footmen and drivers of the guests to partake of their own feast of hoecakes, yams and chitterlings. They usually made their own music, too, and sometimes appeared to be having a better time than the well-dressed, well-to-do people who came up the drive in their fanciest carriages pulled by their best horses.

  From the first light of day until the first guests began arriving, Mamma flew about the house and grounds dictating her commands and inspecting. She insisted that the long trestle picnic tables be covered with fresh linen and that softer chairs be taken from the house and placed about for those guests who didn't fancy hard benches.

  When our guests began to arrive, they followed upon each other so quickly that in moments, the long driveway was lined with saddle horses and carriages of people calling greetings to each other. The children were out first, gathering on the front lawn to arrange for games of tag or hide and seek. Their squeals and laughter sent the barn swallows darting swiftly across the grounds in search of quieter sanctuary. Emily's job was to oversee the children and be sure none of them did anything improper or mischievous. Loudly and firmly, she announced what places on the plantation were off limits and then she proceeded to patrol the grounds like a policeman looking for violators.

  As soon as the women stepped out of their carriages, they formed two distinct groups. The older women went into the house for as much protection from the sun and insects as possible while they exchanged pleasantries and gossip. The younger women gravitated toward the gazebo and benches where some were courted by young men and where others waited hopefully to be discovered in their pretty new dresses.

  The older men were gathered in small clumps about the grounds discussing politics or business. Just before the food was served, Papa took a few men who had not been to The Meadows before and gave them a tour of the house, mainly to show them his collection of guns hanging on the wall in his library. He had dueling pistols and pocket derringers, as well as English rifles.

  Mamma was everywhere, playing the grand hostess, exchanging laughter and words with the gentlemen as well as the ladies. A big party like this seemed to make her flourish. Her golden hair needed no jewel comb to make it glitter with its richness of color and quality, even though she wore one. Her eyes were full of excitement and life, and the sound of her laughter was musical.

  The night before, as usual, she had moaned and groaned about her poor wardrobe and how much wider in the hips she had grown since last year's barbecue. Neither Papa nor Emily paid any attention. I was the only one who showed any interest, but only because I wondered why she complained. Mamma had closets and closets of clothes, despite Papa's refusal to take her shopping. She managed regularly to have something new made or something new bought, and was always up on the latest styles, whether it be of hair or clothes. She had boxes and boxes of shoes and drawers and drawers of jewelry, some of which she had brought with her when she married Papa and some of which she had acquired since.

  I never thought of her as getting fat or ugly, but she insisted her hips had expanded until she looked like a hippopotamus in anything she put on. As always, Louella and Tottie were called in to help her find a solution, to choose clothes that would flatter her the most and hide her imperfections the best.

  Tottie had brushed Mamma's hair for hours while Mamma sat before her vanity mirror and went on about the preparations. Her hair was long, nearly down to her waist, but she would have it combed and pinned in a chignon. Watching all these preparations and anticipating the coiffeurs, the clothes and new styles the women would wear, stimulated my own budding femininity. I spent most of the day before the barbecue with Eugenia, brushing her hair and letting her brush mine.

  The barbecue was one of the few occasions when Mamma permitted Eugenia to mingle with other children and remain outside for hours and hours, as long as she rested in the shade and didn't run around. The joy and tumult, and especially the fresh air, brought a rosy tint to her cheeks and for a while at least, she didn't look like a sickly little girl. She was content and excited simply sitting there under a magnolia, watching the boys wrestle and show off, and the girls prance about imitating their mothers and sisters.

  Late in the afternoon after everyone had been satiated with plenty of food and drink, the guests lounged around, some of the older people actually falling asleep in the shade. The young men played horseshoes and the children were shooed farther off so their screams and laughter wouldn't disturb the adults. At this point, Eugenia, protesting but visibly tired, was brought into the house for a nap.

  Feeling sorry for her, I accompanied her and sat with her in her room until her eyelids couldn't resist the weight of sleep any longer and slowly shut. When her labored breathing became regular, I tiptoed out of her room, closing the door softly behind me. By now the other children were behind the house, eating slices of watermelon. I decided to go through the house and out one of the back doors.

  As I hurried down the corridor and past Papa's library, I heard a ripple of feminine laughter that intrigued me, for it was immediately followed by the sound of someone speaking low. Once again, the young woman giggled. Papa would be very angry if someone went into his library without his knowing about it, I thought. I backtracked a few steps and listened again. The voices had become whispers. More curious than ever, I opened the library door a little farther and peered in to see the back of Darlene Scott's dress lift slowly as the man standing in front of her moved his hand in and under her skirt. I couldn't help but gasp. They heard me and when Darlene turned, I was able to see who the man was—Papa.

  His face turned so fiery red I thought the skin would melt off it. Roughly, he pulled Darlene Scott aside and stepped toward me.

  "What are you doing in the house?" he demanded, seizing my shoulders. He leaned down toward me. His breath on my face was strong with bourbon whiskey mingled with the faint fragrance of mint. "All the children were told to stay out of the house."

  "Well?" he demanded, shaking my shoulders.

  "Oh, she's just frightened, Jed," Darlene said, coming up to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. It seemed to calm him some and he stood up straight.

  Darlene Scott was one of the prettiest young ladies in the area. She had thick, strawberry blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes. There wasn't a young man of courting age who didn't spin his head around to gaze at her cream complexion when she strolled past.

  I looked from Papa to Darlene, who smiled down at me and straightened her dress.

  "Well?" Papa repeated.

  "I was with Eugenia until she fell asleep, Papa," I said. "Now I'm going out to play."

  "Go on then," he said, "and don't let me catch you poking your head in rooms to spy on adults, hear?"

  "Yes, Papa," I said, and looked down because the fire in his eyes burned through me and made me tremble so ha
rd my knees knocked. I had never seen him so angry. It was as if I were standing before a complete stranger.

  "Now get," he commanded, and clapped his hands sharply. I spun around and fled through the doorway, Darlene's giggle behind me.

  Outside, on the stoop, I caught my breath. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would beat a hole in my chest. I was in such a state of turmoil, I couldn't swallow. Why had Papa put his hand underneath Darlene Scott's skirt? Where was Mamma? I wondered.

  Suddenly, the door behind me opened. I turned about, my heart thumping even harder in anticipation of finding Papa there, still angry and remembering something else he wanted to do or say to me. But it wasn't Papa; it was Emily.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Nothing," I said quickly.

  "Papa doesn't want any children brought into the house," she said.

  "I didn't bring anyone into the house. I was just with Eugenia."

  She fixed her penetrating gaze on my face. She had been behind me; she had come through the house, too, making one of her patrols. Surely, she had seen or heard Papa and Darlene Scott, I thought. There was something in her face that told me so, yet I didn't dare ask her. For a moment she looked as if she might ask me and then that look passed.

  "Go on then and join your little friends," she commanded with a sneer.

  I hopped of the stoop and hurried away from the house so quickly, I tripped over a tree root. I broke my fall and when I turned to look back, I expected to see Emily laughing at me. But she was already gone, popped out of the air like a ghost.

  That afternoon, at the start of that summer, I realized in my own childlike way that there were many ghosts dwelling in The Meadows. They weren't Henry's ghosts, the kind that howled on moonlit nights or paced back and forth over the attic floors. They were the ghosts of deceit, the darker ghosts that lived within the hearts of some and haunted the hearts of others.

  For the first time, since I had been brought to this great plantation with its proud Southern history, I felt afraid of the shadows inside. This was supposed to be my home, but I would not venture about it as freely and innocently as I had before.

  Looking back now, I realize we lose our innocence in many ways, the most painful being when we realize those who are supposed to love us and care for us more than anything, really care for themselves and their own pleasures more. It's painful because it makes you realize how alone you really are.

  I walked on that afternoon, eager to submerge myself in the laughter of other children and for the time being, for as long as I could, put off the disappointments and hardships that accompanied growing up. That summer, years before my time, perhaps, I lost a precious piece of my childhood.

  4

  FROM JONAH TO JEZEBEL

  Now that I look back, it seems to me that summer slipped into fall and fall into winter so quickly those days. Only spring took longer and longer to show its budding face. Maybe it appeared that way to me because I was always so impatient and winter always seemed forever. It teased us with its first snowfalls, pledging to turn the world into a dazzling wonderland in which tree branches glistened.

  First snowfalls always made us think of Christmas, a roaring fire in the fireplace, delicious dinners, piles of presents and the fun of decorating our tree, something usually left for Eugenia and I to do. Over the rolling meadows, winter spread her soft white blanket of promise. On those early winter evenings, after the clouds had slid across the glassy surface of a dark blue sky, the moon and the stars would make the snow gleam. From my upstairs window, I could look out at what was magically transformed from a dry yellow field into a sea of milk in which tiny diamonds floated.

  The boys at school were always eager to see winter make its grand entrance. How they could dip their naked hands into the freezing snow and laugh with delight amazed me. Miss Walker was always laying down stern warnings about throwing snowballs. The punishments for being caught doing so on or near the school grounds were severe, and it gave Emily another sword to hold over the heads of those who defied her.

  But for the boys especially, snowfalls guaranteed the endless hours of pleasure that would come with their sleigh riding and snowball fights and ice skating when the lakes and ponds were considered frozen solidly enough. The pond on The Meadows, which would never be the same to me since it willingly embraced poor Cotton, crusted over, but because of the rapid stream that fed it, its layer of ice was always thin and treacherous. All the streams on our land ran faster and heavier in winter, the water looking very cold, yet clear and delicious.

  During the winter our farm animals were more subdued, their stomachs seemingly filled with icy air that leaked out of their nostrils and mouths. Whenever it snowed hard and fast, I felt sorry for the pigs and the chickens, the cows and the horses. Henry told me not to worry because their bodies had thicker skins and thicker feathers and hair, but I couldn't imagine being warm in an unheated barn while the biting winds whipped down from the north and circled the house until they found each and every crack.

  Louella and the chambermaids, who slept in the downstairs rear bedrooms without fireplaces, would heat bricks and wrap them in their beds to keep warm. Henry was busy a large part of the day providing firewood for the various fireplaces throughout the big house. Papa insisted his office be kept warm as toast. Even though he was not in it for hours, sometimes days at a time, if he entered and found it cold, he would roar like a wounded bear and send everyone rushing this way and that looking for Henry.

  During the winter months, Emily's and my walks to and from school were unpleasant at times and at times were nearly impossible because of the winds and the flurries of snow, cold rain and sleet. On a few occasions, Mama sent Henry for us, but Papa kept him so busy most of the time with his household chores, he was unable to make the trip either to or from the schoolhouse.

  Winter didn't seem to bother Emily at all. She wore the same grim expression year round. If anything, she appeared to enjoy the monotonous gray sky. It reinforced her belief that the world was a dark and dreary place in which only religious devotion offered light and warmth. I used to wonder what thoughts passed through Emily's head as she plodded deliberately, silently, her long legs moving in regular, unabated rhythm down the driveway and over the road that took us to school and back. The wind could be whistling through the trees; the sky could be so dismal and dark, I had to remind myself it wasn't the middle of the night; the air could be so cold that our nostrils were lined with tiny crystals of ice. We could even be walking through a downpour of icy rain, and Emily would not change expression. Her eyes were always fixed on something distant. She was oblivious to the snowflakes that melted on her forehead and cheeks. Her feet were never cold, her hands never freezing, even though her fingers were as red as, and the tip of her long, thin nose was even redder than, mine.

  She would either ignore my complaints or turn on me and spit out chastisement for daring to criticize the world God made for us.

  "But why does He want us to be so cold and unhappy?" I would cry, and Emily would glare at me, shake her head, and then nod as if confirming a suspicion about me she had harbored all my life.

  "Don't you listen in Sunday school? God gives us trials and tribulations to strengthen our resolve," she said through her clenched teeth.

  "What's resolve?" I would never hesitate to ask a question about something that I didn't know. My thirst for knowledge and understanding was so great, I would even ask Emily.

  "Our determination to fight off the devil and sin," she said. Then she pulled herself up in that haughty manner of hers and added, "But it might be too late for your redemption. You're a Jonah."

  She never missed an opportunity to remind me.

  "No, I'm not," I insisted, tiredly denying the curse Emily wanted to lay at my feet. She walked on, certain she was right, confident she had some special ear to hear God's words, some special eye to see His works. Who gave her the right to assume such power
? I wondered. Was it our minister or was it Papa? Her knowledge of the Bible pleased him, but as we grew older, he didn't appear to have any more time for her than he had for me or Eugenia. The big difference was that Emily didn't seem to mind. No one enjoyed being alone more than she did. She didn't think anyone else was fit company, and for one reason or another especially avoided Eugenia.

  Despite the setbacks Eugenia continually experienced in her battle against her horrible malady, she never lost her gentle smile or her sweet nature. Her body remained small, fragile; her skin, guarded and protected from the intruding Virginia sun in winter as well as in summer, never was anything but magnolia-white. When she was nine, she looked like a child no older than four or five. I harbored the hope that as she grew older, her body would grow stronger and the cruel illness that imprisoned her would grow weaker. But instead, she dwindled in little ways, each one breaking my heart.

  As the years went by, it was harder and harder for her to walk even through the house. Going up the stairs took her so long that it was a torture to hear her do it; the long seconds ticked by while you waited to hear her foot take that painful next step. She slept more; her arms tired quickly when she sat brushing her own hair, hair that flourished and grew despite everything else, and she would have to wait for me or Louella to finish the brushing for her. The only thing that seemed to annoy her was her eyes tiring when she read. Finally, Mamma took her to get glasses and she had to wear a heavy framed pair with thick lenses that, she said, made her look like a bullfrog. But at least it allowed her to read. She had learned to read almost as quickly as I had.

  Mamma had hired Mr. Templeton, a retired school teacher, to tutor Eugenia, but by the time she was ten, his sessions with her had to be cut to a quarter of what they'd once been because Eugenia didn't have the energy for long lessons. I'd rush to her room after school and discover that she had fallen asleep while ciphering or practicing some grammar. The notebook lay on her lap, the pen still clutched between her small fingers. Usually, I took everything away and gently covered her. Later, she would complain.