I sucked in air and straightened my back the way Mama often did. "Not everyone has a perfect life, madame, but you began yours believing it wasn't perfect to start. You knew and yet you did it. That," I said firmly, undaunted, "was your mistake."
The smile left her face. "You're pretty insolent for a girl your age, but I'm not surprised, considering where you live and how you've been brought up. We'll tolerate each other and do what we have to do, but the day this baby is born, that's the day you leave this house and my life," she declared.
"Madame," I said. "That's the first real thing we agree about."
It seemed all the blood in her body rushed to her face. She jerked up her shoulders and straightened her back. For a moment she simply glared at me. Then she turned and went to the door.
"Remember all I have said," she ordered, and left, closing the door softly behind her. I heard her tiptoe down the stairs and go out the second door. But then I heard her insert the key and turn the lock.
Now I was alone.
I gazed about my new world. I felt like Alice but in a stranger wonderland. The diminutive furniture, the faded walls, the dusty dolls, made it all seem unreal, dreamlike. I had been deposited in Gladys Tate's past, a past obviously rarely visited, a past draped in cobwebs and filled with discarded memories. It was as if I had fallen into someone else's nightmare.
The dolls glared down at me with distrust. The thick shadows cast by the lantern danced with the flicker of the flame. Below me and even above me, the great house creaked. I was afraid to move, afraid that if I made the slightest sound, Gladys would come rushing back upstairs to order me out of the house. But I took off my moccasins and rose slowly to go to the window and raise the shade a few inches. A slight breeze flowed through and I caught the lovely scent of blooming jasmine. When I peeked out, I saw the darkness and the cypress and oak trees silhouetted like sentinels against the still purple-black night sky.
I unpacked my bag, setting Mama and Daddy's picture on the tiny dresser along with my combs and brushes, and the small statue of Saint Medad. Then I took off my dress and underthings and put on my nightgown.
There was nothing to do but put out the light and crawl into bed. I said my prayers and lay there with my eyes open, staring into the darkness. I envisioned Mama miles away getting ready for bed herself, hiding her tears from Daddy, maybe gazing into my empty room and feeling the emptiness in her heart.
I felt that same emptiness now.
And then, for the first time since all this had begun, I thought about the baby forming inside me. Was it a girl or a boy and how would he or she like living under this roof'? How would Gladys Tate really treat the child? Would she be cruel to him or her or would she really accept the baby as her own and find a place in her heart for the infant? It would be horrid to learn she mistreated the baby. Right now she seemed capable of taking her vengeance out on anyone or anything, and yet . . .
And yet, I had this abiding faith, this deep-set belief that she somehow saw me as a necessary evil, a temporary place of incubation for her own longsought-after child. She was hard and filled her sentences with threats, but surely she wanted it all to go well. I would not be neglected or abused, I thought.
My hope, no, my prayer, was that time would pass quickly and I would go home to the only world I had known and cherished. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard the cry of a night heron. I went to the window and peeked out to see it had landed on the railing outside my window. It turned and looked at me and then lifted its wings as if in greeting and as if to tell me all the animals of the swamp I loved and I believed loved and trusted me were here, watching over me.
The heron lifted off the railing and swooped toward the shadows and trees, its neck bent in that S shape. A moment later it was gone and all was quiet. I returned to the tiny bed, crawling in as quietly as I could, and then I closed my eyes and pretended I was falling asleep in my own room. In the morning Mama would call to me and all this . . .
All this would have just been a nasty dream.
5
Denied the Sun
.
Sometime during the night someone must have
come into my tiny room and pulled down the shade so that when dawn came it provided only a dim light through the sole window. Of course, it had to be Gladys. It shocked and amazed me that I hadn't heard and awoken when she had entered the room. But the emotional strain associated with coming here and my own pregnant condition had put me into a deep sleep.
The moment my eyes snapped open and I had scrubbed the drowsiness from them, my instinct was to rise and pull up the shade, but Gladys Tate's warnings buzzed around in my head like a bee trapped in a jelly jar. How dismal it was to open my eyes and not see the bright sunshine or be able to look out the window and see the birds flitting and flowers spreading their blossoms to catch the invigorating rays. Mama always said I was like a wildflower and needed the sunshine to make me happy and help me grow and be healthy.
I sat up, but I couldn't peel back the blanket of depression. Would I be able to endure this for the number of months I had left before the birth of the baby? Had I made promises I couldn't keep? All I could do to counter the dreariness and despair was remind myself of how this would keep the shame from our doorstep and provide a good home for the baby who bore no blame for its existence. Why should a child suffer for a father's sin?
The aroma of freshly brewed, dark Cajun coffee, just-baked bread, fried eggs, and sausages permeated my room, slipping in under the
floorboards. It made my stomach churn in
anticipation. I rose and, because of the dimness, turned on the lantern. Then I dressed and, using the back of one of Gladys Tate's toy cooking pans as a mirror, brushed and pinnned my hair. I used the chamber pot and some of the water to wash my face and feel as refreshed as possible under these conditions. After that, I sat on the bed and listened hopefully for the sound of footsteps that would signal Gladys's arrival with my breakfast. I could hear the muffled voices of people below, the slam of a door, the barking of dogs, some grounds workers shouting to each other outside, but I heard no footsteps heralding her arrival.
Bored with the wait, I rose and began to explore the room. First I took the lantern to the small closet and, after blowing the dust away, brought out the books, which were all children's stories. What had Gladys Tate been thinking when she had said I could read these books to pass the time? They were designed for a child who had just learned to read and consisted mostly of pictures with occasional simple words.
The most impressive thing in the closet was the handmade dollhouse with everything inside it constructed to scale. I quickly realized that it was a model of The Shadows, and by studying it, I could learn where every room was and what was in each room. However, absent from the model was the room in which I was presently living.
There was tiny furniture, even tiny books in the bookcases and tiny kitchen implements in the kitchen. My fingers were too thick to fit in some of the small openings, so I imagined it had been built for Gladys when she was very little. Aside from the dust that had made it a home, the dollhouse was in perfect condition. Exploring it further, I discovered that the roof could be detached and I could have a godlike view of the interiors. I saw what I was sure was meant to be Gladys's mother and father lying beside each other in the king-size bed in the master bedroom. What looked like Gladys's room had a bed with a canopy, but the miniature doll meant to represent her was gone. There were wee dolls to represent the maids, cooks, and the butler, even minuscule replicas of some hound dogs sleeping in the den by the fireplace.
There were no other children in the dollhouse, and the only other bedrooms were for the maids or empty guest rooms. The kitchen, as in most Cajun homes, was in the rear, and just behind it was a pantry filled with things so small, my fingernail was twice the size. I decided whoever had built this toy world had been a master craftsman, an artist in his or her own right.
I put the house aside and rummaged through the old mag
azines. I found coloring books and a pad of dry watercolor paints with stiff brushes. There were moldy crayons, pencils, and a toy sewing kit with some material meant for doll's clothing. I found a toy nurse's set with a stethoscope, a nurse's cap, a fake thermometer, and some real bandages and gauze. That, too, looked barely used.
At the bottom of the pile, I discovered a notebook that had been used as a drawing pad. The first few pages had crude line drawings, but as I turned the pages, I felt I was turning through the years of Gladys Tate's development until I reached the point at which her drawings were more sophisticated. One page in particular caught my interest.
I thought it looked like Gladys Tate's selfportrait: the face of a little girl who had similar features. Behind the little girl was the looming face of a bearded man. She had drawn nothing more of his body, but hovering just above her shoulder was what was obviously meant to be his hand, the fingers thick, one with a marriage band.
When I lifted the notepad a little higher to bring it closer, I saw something slipping from between some pages. It was a card with a small bird on the outside. Inside were scribbled the words: To my little Princess. Love, Daddy. There was a second card, also with a bird on the outside. This time the scribbled words read: Never be afraid. Love, Daddy.
I turned a few more pages, observing crude drawings of a man without a shirt, his chest covered with what I was sure was meant to look like curled hairs. In the middle of the torso was a light drawing of a face with the mouth stretched in what looked like a scream.
Curious and now intrigued, I flipped past the drawings of birds, trees, and a horse to find the picture that made me gasp. It had been drawn with a shaky hand. The lines wobbled, but it was clearly meant to be the body of a man, waist down, naked, his manliness drawn quite vividly. I closed the notebook quickly, put it back in the closet, and stood up, slapping my hands together to shake off the dust. What strange things for a little girl to draw, I thought. I was afraid to permit myself to wonder what it all meant.
I went to my door and opened it slowly, listening keenly for the sound of footsteps. Surely she would be bringing me something to eat soon, I thought. I was very hungry and my stomach was growling with anger. Frustrated, but aware that if I didn't occupy myself, my hunger would only bellow louder, I turned to the shelf of dolls.
I found some cloth to use for dusting and took the first doll down to carefully wipe its arms, legs, and face. All these dolls looked like they had been expensive ones. Some had features so perfect, I was positive they were handmade. Observing the line of them on the shelf, I realized that there were only two male dolls, and they had been placed a little behind the others.
As I put the first doll down on the table, I noticed something odd when the doll's dress was raised. I peeled back the skirt and gazed with horror at what had been done. A blotch of black ink had been painted between the doll's legs where its female genitals would be. I inspected the other dolls and found either that or a chipping away of the area that had been done with some crude implement. The worst damage, however, was inflicted on the two boy dolls. They had been smashed so that their torsos ended just under their belly buttons.
I hated to think what this all possibly meant. Suddenly I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the short stairway. I hurriedly returned the dolls to the shelf and sat on the bed just as Gladys Tate opened my door, my tray of food in her hands.
"Well," she snapped. "Don't just sit there waiting to be served. Come take it."
I hopped off the bed, took the tray, and placed it on the table.
"Thank you," I said. I pulled the chair close and sat. "Why is that lantern on?" she asked.
"It's so dark in here with the shade drawn."
"You're just wasting the kerosene. I can't be bringing up kerosene every day too. Use it sparingly," she ordered, and turned it out, draping us in shadows. Nevertheless, I began to eat and drink the coffee while it was still warm.
"I see you've been looking at things already," she said, noticing the things on the floor by the closet.
"Yes, madame. That's a very nice dollhouse, a replica of this house, isn't it?"
"My father made that for me. He was artistic," she said, "but he did those things only as a hobby."
"It is a work of art. You should have it on display, downstairs."
"I don't think I need you to tell me how to decorate my house," she snapped. "It belongs up here and here is where it will remain."
"I'm sorry. I just thought you would be proud to have other people see it."
"If you must know, it's personal. He gave it to me for my fifth birthday." She closed her eyes as if it had been painful to explain.
"You must have loved it. I looked at the books. They're all for very small children."
"Umm. I'll see about bringing up something more equal to your maturity. My father used to make me read Charles Dickens. He had me stand before him and read passages aloud."
"I have read some of Charles Dickens's novels in school, yes."
"Well, any one of them will keep you busy awhile," she said. "You were sufficiently quiet this morning," she offered in a tone as close to a compliment as she could manage. "No one noticed anything or mentioned anything to me. That's good. Keep it that way," she commanded.
"One thing you must do, however. Rise before dawn and close the shade. It has never been up during the day, and someone will surely notice."
"Why has it never been up?" I asked.
"It just hasn't," she shot back. "This room has been abandoned up until now."
"Why?" I persisted. "I would think your old playroom would have some nice memories for you, and you would want to keep it nice."
"You would, would you? Who do you think you are continually offering your opinion as to what I should and shouldn't do in my house?" She flicked her stony eyes over me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to . ."
"Just worry about yourself. There's plenty to do there," she said. "I'll be right back," she added, and left the room.
While she was gone, I finished eating. When she returned, she had a pail of water and a handful of rags in her hand.
"I brought you this so you could start cleaning this room. Do it as quietly as possible."
"I'll need more than one pail of water, madame," I said. She snapped her head back and lifted her shoulders as if I had slapped her.
"I know that, you fool. You'll start with this. You don't expect me to cart pail after pail of water up here, do you? Tonight you can dump this out with your chamber pot and bring up another pail of water along with your drinking water. I was just being nice giving you the first pail."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful," I said, which took the steel out of her spine. She didn't smile, but her eyes warmed.
"If you're finished eating, we have some very important matters to go over," she said.
"Certainly, madame." I turned, waiting.
She folded her arms over her chest and took a few steps toward the window. "I, as you know, have never been pregnant. I know as much about it as any woman my age should," she added quickly, "but there is nothing like the actual experience. That's true about everything, I suppose, but especially true when it comes to pregnancy."
I nodded, not sure what it was she was trying to say.
"If we are to make this work, have people believe me when I say I am pregnant, I had better behave as if I am. I know you're just about two months pregnant, right?"
"That's right, madame."
"Well," she said, and waited. When I didn't say anything, she snapped, "Tell me about it."
"Tell you? Where should I begin, madame?"
"At the beginning, where else? How did you find out you were pregnant?"
"Mama told me. I woke up nauseous and had to vomit. After it happened again, she asked me if I had missed my period."
"Yes?"
"I had and then she asked me if I was sensitive here," I said, indicating my breasts.
"Sensiti
ve?" She stepped closer. "Exactly what does that feel like?"
"It feels like my breasts are fuller. Sometimes they are tender and sore."
"Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows.
I felt odd describing these things to her. For the moment it seemed as though I were the adult and she were the younger woman. How could she appear so sophisticated in other ways but be so ignorant of womanly things? I wondered.
"Yes," I said. "Sometimes they actually hurt." Her eyes widened. "I'm also tired more often and find myself dozing off."
"Yes?"
"And I have to go to the bathroom more. . . urinate," I said.
"Did you throw up this morning?" she asked.
"No. Mama gave me some herbs that help me."
"Good. For her first visit, I'll have her bring me the herb, too," she said. "If it works, why not?" she added, which I thought was a strange thing to say. Why would she actually want it? "Now, what about your stomach? I can't tell because of that skirt, but you don't seem to be showing much."
"No. Mama told me she didn't show until she was nearly five months, but I do see a small difference," I said.
She stared at me a moment and then nodded. "I want to see for myself," she said.
"Pardon, madame?"
"I want to see. I have to know exactly what you look like now and as time goes by to do this right, don't I? Take off your clothing."
I hesitated.
"What's wrong? You go parading about in the swamp nude, don't you?"
"I don't go parading about," I said, tears coming to my eyes.
"It's the same thing, whatever you want to call it. Now, just get undressed. I told you, warned you, you would have to be cooperative," she said in a threatening tone. "Either you do what I ask or march right out of here now. Make up your mind."
I swallowed back a throat lump and sucked in my breath. Then, first turning away from those glaring eyes of stone, I lifted my dress over my head. I unfastened my bra and slipped out of my panties. Before I could turn around, her arms came over my head, a tape measure in her hands. She had brought it up with her, planning all along to do this. She wrapped it roughly around my stomach and pulled to take a measurement.