Catherine Carmier

by Ernest J. Gaines

  Lillian had caught Jackson and Catherine looking at each other, and she had felt good about it. Maybe this was what it would take to get her away from that house. Maybe this was it.

  It was Lillian and not Catherine who had suggested that they go for a walk in the quarters. They had both seen Jackson go by the house, and Lillian could tell from Catherine’s face that she wanted to be near him. Only Catherine did not know what excuse to use to get out of the yard. Lillian had suggested a walk. At first Catherine had seemed skeptical, but she had later agreed. Poor Catherine did not know what was ticking away in Lillian’s mind. If she did, she probably would have hated her for it.

  When they came up to the gate—they had gotten there sooner than anyone realized—Lillian told Jackson that she wished she would see him again, then she took Nelson by the hand and led him away. She had done all of this so suddenly that Jackson did not have a chance to say anything to her. He and Catherine were alone.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be going,” he said. He said it in a voice that sounded too nervous and too hoarse to be his own.

  “Why don’t you come by sometime?”

  He looked at her. He could not believe that she really meant what she had said. She did not repeat it. Maybe it had slipped out of her mouth because this was the normal thing that one person would say to another.

  “How long are you going to be here?” she asked him.

  “A couple more weeks.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you again,” she said. But from the look in her face, this was not half of what she had wanted to say. No, not nearly half. Maybe this was not it at all. Maybe she wanted to say something else—and maybe nothing. Maybe what she really wanted was to feel his arms around her, their bodies pressed together, his mouth on her mouth. No, not maybe, this is what both of them wanted.

  They continued to look at each other. Then a little smile came on her mouth. It seemed to say—All right, nothing can come of our love, but we can like each other, can’t we? They can keep us apart, but they can’t make us stop liking each other, can they? Then the smile went away, and her eyes said: Liking is not enough for us, is it? Is it? No, his eyes said. No. But we must understand, mustn’t we? her eyes said. His eyes did not answer. Mustn’t we? her eyes said. But he still did not answer. Only his heart seemed to tell him that she was right.

  “Good night,” she said.

  It was a while before he knew that she had spoken, and even when he did, it was a while, yet, before he could draw himself away from her.

  “Catherine,” he said, nodding.

  She went into the yard, and he walked away, and there was an emptiness in him deeper than he had ever known before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Charlotte had already left for church when Jackson got home. He went into the kitchen and ate, but he ate only a little. When he was through eating and had washed his plate, he came out on the porch again. He sat in the swing and looked at the big house farther down the quarters. Dusk was just setting in, but the trees around the old house made the place look as black as pitch. The emptiness was still in him, and he tried to make it go away by telling himself that all of this was nonsense. He told himself that he could not think of this now. He told himself that there were more important things to think about. He had to think about his future. He had come here for that purpose—not to fall in love. But the emptiness would not leave him, because regardless of whatever else he tried to think about, he could not get her out of his mind.

  He sat on the porch a long time, looking at the house farther down the quarters. He wanted to go back down there again; he wanted to see her again; he wanted to see that love for him in her eyes; he wanted to see that little smile again. But he knew he should not even think about it.

  When he saw Charlotte and Mary Louise coming home from church, he went inside and lay across the bed. But the emptiness was with him when he got up the next morning, and it was with him all day. He went for a walk along the river, and it was with him there also. I know better, he told himself. I know better. Don’t you see how it is? Don’t you see? I want something, don’t you see? I want to be something, don’t you see? And all you would do is get in my way—block me. Don’t you see that once I’m tied down, it is all over? That I must take what they give to me whether I want to or not?

  He picked up pebbles and threw them into the water. He watched the circles get bigger, bigger until they had disappeared. He found that tossing pebbles and watching the circles disappear helped him in his thinking. Yet, it did not solve anything.

  That evening he sat on the porch, looking at the house. The sun was just going down, giving everything an orange and purplish color. He felt lonelier than ever before. It is like this with people who are in love. The setting of the sun is the worst time of day.

  He could not sit there any longer. He would have to go for a walk. If he did not see her, then he would see the house. He would see the gate; he would see the place where they stood the day before.

  His heart pounded in him as he came up even with the house. She was sitting on the porch. She was there alone. Did she look at him, or was it his imagination? He came back. Yes, she had stood up and she was looking toward the road. He came back again. She was at the gate. His heart raced so fast when he saw her that he thought he would be unable to stay on his feet. But he managed to say, “Care to go for a walk, Catherine?”

  She came into the road where he was and they went back up the quarters. He did not know where they would go, but as they came up to his house, he opened the gate and they went into the yard.

  “The first time you’ve been here?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How’s it been? All right?”

  “All right,” she said.

  They were sitting on the steps. They were silent after this. Catherine sat forward with her hands clasped together, and Jackson could tell that she was not comfortable being at the house. But he did not know what to say or to do to make her feel at ease.

  “It’s wrong, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” she said. She was not looking at him; she was looking down at the gate.

  “I know,” he said. He waited for her to disagree with him, but she did not. “I told myself that. I kept telling myself that. But it didn’t do any good.”

  She looked at him and looked toward the gate again.

  “Were you expecting me to come by?” he asked.

  “I was hoping.”

  “Were you really?”

  She did not say any more. Maybe she should not have said that much.

  He continued to look at her. His heart was beating fast in him. He had never felt this way about anyone before. He wondered if he should move closer to her. He wanted to. He wanted to touch her arm; he wanted to touch her face.

  A man went by the house, and Jackson saw Catherine draw back a little. The man had not seen her; he had not even looked in that direction.

  “I ought to be going,” she said.

  “He didn’t see you.”

  “I ought to be going anyhow.”

  She stood up to leave, and he stood up with her. Just before going through the gate, he pulled her back and kissed her. She did not respond to him. He thought he had frightened her because of his awkwardness, and he kissed her again. It was the same as before.

  “What is the matter, Catherine? What is the matter? You came to me.”

  She looked at him—wanting him. Yet she was afraid to give back.

  He kissed her again.

  “Is it him?” he asked.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Is it?”

  She was silent.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I must know.”

  “You know it’s wrong, don’t you? Don’t you know it’s wrong? All we can do is hurt each other, don’t you know that?”

  “Say you don’t love me, Catherine, and I’ll never see you again. Say you don’t love me, and I’ll nev
er bother you again.”

  She looked at him—silence.

  “Say it, Catherine. Say it.”

  “You know how I feel.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes.”

  He passed his hand over her hair and her face. Her mouth brushed against his hand. Was it an accident, or was she actually kissing him? They went out of the yard.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They were walking fast to keep from meeting anyone in the road. When they came up to the other house, they stood in front of the gate.

  “Can’t you leave the house tomorrow night? Can’t you go in the car somewhere?”

  “I shouldn’t. You know that.”

  “Yesterday you even invited me to the house. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do know.”

  She looked away.

  “All right,” he said. “I won’t insist. I don’t even want to love you. You can only get in my way. You know that? Only in my way. But I can’t help myself. I do love you. I need you. And you need me, Catherine.”

  She would not look at him.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll leave.”

  He turned to go.

  “Jackson?” she said.

  He turned to her.

  “I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Della was sitting on the porch when Catherine came into the yard. Nelson was sitting in his little rocking chair next to her. Catherine would have gone by without saying anything to either one of them, but Della stopped her.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “I only went for a walk.”

  “Yes, and up there,” Della said, looking at her. “I warned you yesterday, I’m warning you again—”

  “I’m not married to Daddy, Mama.”

  “Oh,” Della said. “You not?”

  Catherine started inside.

  “I didn’t say I was through,” Della said.

  Catherine did not answer her. She went into her room and lay across the bed. A moment later, Lillian came into the room where she was.

  “Went somewhere?” Lillian asked. “I came out on the porch looking for you, but you weren’t there.”

  Catherine lay on the bed facing the wall, and she did not answer Lillian. Lillian had gone out on the porch, as she said, but she knew all the time that Catherine and Jackson had gone back up the quarters. She had stood at the window watching them.

  “Was it Jackson?” she said. “Did you all go somewhere?”

  Catherine was silent. Lillian lay on the bed beside her.

  “What’s the matter, Cathy? If you love him, why not?”

  Catherine did not say anything, and Lillian put her arm around Catherine’s shoulder.

  “I’m with my sister,” she said. “I’m with my sister whatever she does.”

  “Go to your room, Lillian,” Catherine said.

  “Don’t send me away, Cathy,” Lillian said.

  “Go to your room,” Catherine said.

  “Please, Cathy.”

  Catherine did not say any more. She was still facing the wall. Lillian lay beside her a moment longer, then she stood up. She looked down at Catherine, leaned over and kissed her, and went out of the room.

  Catherine got up from the bed and sat down in front of the dresser. She turned on the little white lamp to her left, and looked at herself in the mirror. I feel like a bitch, she thought. Every time I look at a man, I feel like a bitch. She picked up the long-handled brush and began brushing her hair. Her hair was long and nearly black, and she loved brushing it. After she had passed the brush through her hair the number of times she usually did every night, she gave it six extra strokes for safekeeping and laid the brush to the side. She picked up her small hand mirror, held it up and out, then turned a little to look at the right side of her face. Then she turned the other way to look at the left side. She lifted her hair in back, held it over her head, then to the side. She laid the small mirror on the dresser and turned to the larger one in front of her. She was not through with her hair yet. She pulled it to the side, twisted it, and pinned it on top. Then she unpinned it, twisted it, rolled it, and pinned it in back. She unpinned it again and tied a ribbon around it so that it would hang in a pony tail. She stopped and looked at herself; then she jerked the ribbon out of her hair and threw it on the floor.

  She was lying across the bed when she heard the car come into the yard. Nelson was asleep beside her. She looked at him and went back to the kitchen. The clock on the shelf had ten thirty. Catherine turned on the stove and set a pot of water over one of the burners to boil.

  “Still up?” Raoul said when he came in.

  “Wasn’t sleepy,” she said.

  Raoul set a big cardboard box of groceries on the table and began taking the things out and putting them on the shelf against the wall.

  “Like some tea?” Catherine asked him.

  “Sounds all right.”

  Catherine dropped enough bay leaves in the water for two cups of tea. She stood over the stove, watching the water turn from clear to light brown. When she thought the leaves had boiled enough, she poured two cupfuls and brought them to the table.

  “Cakes there,” Raoul said.

  She got the bag of vanilla wafers off the shelf and put some on a plate. She brought the plate to the table and sat across from Raoul.

  “Saw any of the people?” she asked.

  “Saw Margaret. Didn’t go by Elvira.”

  “Saw Jeanette?”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  Catherine drank some tea and looked across the table at Raoul.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

  “Huh?” she said absently. “Nothing.”

  Raoul continued to look at her. The two of them had been around each other so much that each could tell when the other was holding back something. Raoul did not say any more.

  When he was half through with his cup of tea, Raoul looked out of the door. Catherine raised her eyes and looked at him. She could look at him more closely now. When he was facing her, it was impossible to do so. He could read her mind too well.

  Raoul began talking about the field. Whenever he talked about the field now, the Cajuns and their tractors always got into the conversation. He was afraid, and Catherine could tell. He was the only colored farmer holding out against them now, and he knew that sooner or later they were going to take over. But he was not ready to let them take over yet. If he had to work seven days a week, twelve hours a day, he would do it. He was going to give them hell before their tractors plowed dirt in his face.

  Catherine looked at him. She was proud of him when he talked this way, and yet, she was afraid. She knew what the Cajuns could do when someone got in their way. They had proved this when her grandfather stood up against them. She knew they would not hesitate to do the same thing to Raoul.

  But she had waited up tonight for a special reason. Tonight she wanted to look at Raoul closely. She wanted to decide whether her entire life should be devoted to him, or whether she should be free to look at someone else. She knew she could not leave them—that was impossible as long as he and Della remained the way they were toward each other; but she wanted to know if she should see Jackson again. If she did see him, she wanted to do so without feeling ashamed; she wanted to see him and not feel like a bitch afterward.

  Raoul leaned back in his chair and looked out into the yard. He drank from his cup of tea and narrowed his eyes into two small slits. He seemed thoughtful one moment, then worried the next. How can I decide anything when he’s like this? Catherine asked. How? Raoul sat up in the chair and looked at her again.

  “Well, I better turn in,” he said.

  “Turning in?”

  Raoul drank the last of the tea.

  “You sure you got nothing on your mind?” he asked her.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Well, I’m turning
in.”

  After he had gone, Catherine washed the two cups, put them away, and went to her room. She took off her clothes and lay beside the baby. Nelson was asleep, snoring soft and evenly. Catherine lay on her side, looking at him. She passed her hand over his hair and the side of his face. She caressed his ear with her finger, kissed it, and turned on her back.

  Catherine thought about Raoul and Jackson. What could she do? It was impossible to belong to both at the same time, and it was just as impossible to belong to one and not to the other.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Catherine sat near the end of the porch; Della was next to her, near the door; and Raoul sat across from both of them. They had been sitting on the porch half an hour and there had not been a dozen words spoken between them. Every now and then Della would slap at a mosquito with the piece of cloth that she had brought out of the house, but other than this, there was nothing from any one.

  It had become extremely dark by now, but Catherine could see someone coming up the road. When he passed the first gate, he stopped a moment, then walked on. Catherine knew who it was, and a few minutes later, he returned, stopped, and went back up the quarters.

  “I think I’ll go for a ride in the car,” she said to no one in particular, but loud enough for both Della and Raoul to hear. “I wonder if Lily would like to go.”

  She had to pass by Della to go inside the house. Della looked up at her as she came up to the door, and she could tell that Della had seen Jackson too.

  Lillian was lying across the bed reading a magazine when Catherine came into the room. Lillian made an imprint on the page with her fingernail and turned on her side to look at Catherine. She was smiling already—it was a habit with her. She felt that Catherine had more troubles than her share, and it was her, Lillian’s, duty to give Catherine her undivided attention whenever Catherine approached her. There was nothing hypocritical about this. Lillian was sincere toward Catherine in every way.

  “Want to go for a ride?” Catherine asked her. “I’m going up the road a piece.”