Catherine nodded her head.
“And that cousin of yours there, she drinks. If she starts that tonight—”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Daddy.”
“I’m not,” he said. He wanted to smile to show her that he had confidence in her, but he did not. “You got enough money?”
Catherine nodded. “I have enough.”
“Your sister?”
“I think so.”
Raoul took out his wallet and gave Catherine another dollar.
“For the Cokes,” he said.
He put the wallet back and took out his watch—a big gold watch with a gold chain and gold numbers on the dial. His father had given him the watch on his twenty-first birthday. The watch had been passed down from father to son for the past three generations. But there was no one for him to pass it to.
“Eight thirty now,” he said. “By twelve.”
He put the watch back in his pocket, but he was not through yet, and Catherine knew it. The rest of what he had to say was not said out loud. It was said with only a look, but Catherine understood it as well as if he had spoken each word. Since you’re going to the dance, I guess you’ll have to dance with them, but as soon as the dance is over, you go over there and stand where Margaret is standing, and make Lillian do the same. And, listen, I don’t care what reason you might have, I don’t want you or Lillian going out of that hall unless Margaret is there with you. Do you understand?
Catherine understood, and they went back into the living room. Jeanette was dancing a waltz in the center of the floor; when she saw her uncle she danced toward him and barked again.
“Ready?” Margaret asked.
“Ready,” Catherine said.
Jeanette danced toward Elvira who stood at the mantelpiece.
“Good-bye, Aunt Vy,” she said.
“Jeanette, you’re only going to the dance,” Elvira said.
“I don’t know,” Jeanette said, dancing toward Bertha Taveras. “I might dance all the way to California, hot as it is. Good-bye, Madame Taveras. It’s been so good knowing you.”
“Good-bye, Jeanette,” Bertha Taveras said, and started laughing. Bertha Taveras was one of those big, sensitive women who could laugh or cry with little provocation.
Jeanette danced across the room to Raoul who stood against his sister’s sewing machine.
“Gruff to you,” she said. “Gruff, gruff to you.”
And she turned and danced toward the door, followed by her mother and her two cousins.
“Cards?” Elvira said. “Why don’t you hang your hat up, Raoul?”
“Yes; cards,” Bertha said. “Hand me your hat, Raoul.”
She took the hat and left the room, but a moment later she was back. Elvira had already set up a small card table in the center of the floor, and while Bertha placed three chairs around it, Elvira got a deck of cards, a notebook, and a pencil out of a drawer. She put the things on the table, took her seat, and began shuffling the cards.
“How’s the work?” Bertha asked Raoul.
“Hard,” Raoul said indifferently.
“Unbutton your coat,” Bertha said. “You’ll burn up.”
“Better yet, take it off,” Elvira said.
Raoul did neither. He cut the cards and Elvira started dealing them out. After the second hand, he unbuttoned the coat, but still kept it on.
“How are the folks?” Elvira asked.
Raoul knew she was talking about their mother and their aunt, and not about Della. Della did not exist as far as she was concerned.
“All right,” he said, taking a card off the deck, and then laying one out of his hand down on the table.
“Aunt Rose’s garden?”
“All right, I suppose,” Raoul said. “I ain’t seen it since I plowed it up.”
“Gin,” Bertha said.
Raoul and Elvira counted what they had on the table, subtracted what they had in their hands, and Raoul gathered the cards and started shuffling them again.
“Why didn’t you bring me a melon?” Bertha asked. “You know how much I like them little sweet country melons?”
Raoul pretended he did not hear her. The two women looked at each other, and Elvira said, “He never think about people in town.”
“That’s the true, Raoul?” Bertha asked.
Raoul did not answer. He cut the deck in halves and shuffled the cards again.
“Is that the true, Raoul?”
He cut the cards, shuffled them again, and set the deck in front of Bertha.
“Cut,” he said.
“You never think of people in town?” she asked.
Raoul pushed the deck toward his sister.
“You want cut?” he asked her.
“Look at me when I talk, Raoul,” Bertha said.
“Cut,” Raoul told Elvira.
“I’m getting me some water,” Elvira said.
“Sit down,” Raoul told her.
“I can get some water if I want,” she said.
“Sit down,” Raoul told her.
“Look at me, Raoul,” Bertha said. Raoul turned to her. “Say you love her, Raoul. Say it in front of your sister; in front of God. Say you love her.”
Raoul continued looking at her, but did not say anything.
“You don’t love her. You never loved her. And all I want to do is make you happy. That’s all.”
“I thought one dick in this heat would be enough,” he said.
“Is that a nice thing to say, Raoul?” Elvira said. “And in front of me, your own sister?”
“He just want to make me cry,” Bertha said. “Make me ruin my face. All right, I will cry and ruin my face. If that’s what you want, I will cry and ruin my face.”
She stood up from the chair, and already the tears had come into her eyes.
“Can I go lay ’cross your bed a while?” she asked Elvira.
“Of course, honey,” Elvira said.
Bertha looked at Raoul again before leaving the room. She would have forgotten what he had said if he had only looked up at her.
“Oh, Raoul, Raoul,” Elvira said. “Why do you have to say that to her? All she want you to do is look at her sometimes. Talk to her sometimes. Is that asking too much?”
“You cutting?” Raoul said.
“Cut yourself,” Elvira said. “You act like a damned priest—forgive me, Father in Heaven. Now, you got me swearing.” She looked at Raoul. “Raoul,” she said. “Catherine is not the answer.”
“You ain’t cutting these cards?”
“I’m not cutting any damned cards.”
“Then shut up,” he said.
“I’m not shutting up,” Elvira said, getting up more courage. “This is my house, and I talk in it as much as I want. No, she’s not the answer. She’s not. And no matter how much you love her, she can’t take the place of a woman.”
Raoul began shuffling the cards all over again. He would play a game of solitary.
“Raoul, let her go. Let her go, Raoul.”
But he was not listening any more.
“Let her go, Raoul,” Elvira said. “Give her a chance. Give her a chance before it’s too late.”
He began laying out the hand of solitary, and Elvira knew there was no use talking to him any more. She stood up from the table and looked down at him a moment; then she went into the bedroom where the other woman was.
Raoul took out his watch to look at the time. It was only nine o’clock. That meant he had three more hours to stay here—even more if they did not come back at midnight as he had told them. He put his watch back.
If there was someplace else he could go, he would have stood up that moment and left. But there was not another place in Bayonne. He would not go near that dance hall, and not one of the bars in Bayonne was fit for a man to drink in. And since he did not visit anyone else here—Baton Rouge, New Orleans, or any place else for that matter—he had no alternative but to sit where he was and wait. Maybe later he would go for a walk, but he wa
s not sure that he would do even that.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jackson bought his ticket at the door and went into the dance hall. The hall was packed and very hot. The three big fans in the ceiling were spinning at full speed, but they were not doing very much good. Women and girls who were not dancing sat in chairs along the wall fanning themselves with pocket handkerchiefs and cardboard fans. The music was fast and wild, and there was dancing everywhere.
After standing at the door a moment, Jackson moved farther into the hall He looked for Catherine, but he did not see her. He started toward a window, but the window was crowded with people laughing and talking. He moved along the hall toward another window, but this one was crowded also. He stood there a moment looking for Catherine, and then as he started to move again, he felt someone touch him on the arm. He turned around; it was Lillian.
“See you made it?”
“Yes.”
“Got my letter?”
“I got it yesterday.”
“I’m glad you could make it. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. She missed you. She missed you very much.”
Lillian said all of this very fast—too fast for Jackson, as a matter of fact. It sounded to Jackson as though she had been rehearsing the lines. He looked at her. What was in it for her? Why had she written the letter? And why was she saying this now? He remembered how she had looked at him from the window that night he and Catherine had the argument in the yard. She had not blamed him at all for what he did—for the way he cursed Catherine and threw her back against the tree. On the contrary, she seemed to be blaming Catherine for not leaving with him.
“Do you love her, Jackson? Do you?”
“I love her, Lillian.”
She smiled—a forced smile—one that was not necessary. Her eyes were on Jackson, but she seemed to be looking at something far away. Jackson did not like Lillian. There was something evil about her. There was something deep and evil in her that he did not like. He turned away and looked out on the floor again. The people were dancing in front of him and to either side. He looked for Catherine everywhere, but he did not see her.
Then after he and Lillian had been standing there a few minutes, he saw Catherine coming toward him. She was looking very pretty and happy. She was with another fellow—a tall mulatto, quite handsome, and dressed in an Ivy League suit. The mulatto’s hand was on Catherine’s shoulder. Jackson’s face and neck began to burn him; he felt himself breaking out into a sweat. He saw Catherine stop. She had not known he was there. She had not seen him before now. Then he saw her start toward him again. The mulatto never did move his hand. They came over and Catherine spoke. She seemed both awkward and frightened.
“Paul Aguillard; Jackson Bradley,” she said.
The mulatto, smiling, stepped forward and shook his hand; then he moved back and put his hand on Catherine’s shoulder again. Jackson’s face burned even more; his heart began to race in him. He wanted to jerk the mulatto’s hand away, and he wanted to hit Catherine with his fist. Nobody’s hand should be on her but his own.
“I went over where you were sitting, but Aunt Maggie said you’d come this way,” Catherine said to Lillian.
“I saw Jackson come in,” Lillian said. “I came over where he was.” Catherine looked at Lillian a long moment as though she did not know what to do next. Then she turned to Jackson again. She tried to seem composed. She even raised her head a little higher to show how at ease she was.
“Thought you had gone back?” she said. She was so at ease now that she could even smile when she said it.
“I’m still here,” he said cuttingly.
She did not know what to say, but she had to say something.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Are you, Catherine?”
She looked at him a moment before answering. “It’s all right.”
They did not say any more, but they continued looking at each other. He means nothing to me, Catherine said with her eyes. He means nothing to me.
Jackson looked at the mulatto. The mulatto was quite handsome. He wore very nice, expensive clothes. He looked quite intelligent. He would probably end up teaching in a college or maybe he would become a lawyer. He seemed like the professional type. And maybe that was what she deserved, Jackson thought. He would give her much more than I ever could. He could give her a nice home, security; what could I ever give to anyone? Should I walk out of here now, this moment? But where will I go, and what to? He turned to Catherine again. Her eyes had never left his face.
“So that’s where everybody is,” Jackson heard someone saying behind him. It was Jeanette who was coming over to where they were. “Oh, hello there,” she said to Jackson. “Yes, I must say, you are boss. Yes, I like that.” She whistled and smiled coquettishly at him. “Got me looking all over the place, and everybody is over here,” she said to the others. “Hello, Paul, you’re still with us? Thought you’d left by now?”
“I’m still here, Jeanette,” the mulatto said in a French accent, which he obviously liked very much.
“Yes, I see,” Jeanette said. “I see. Yes, indeed.”
There was silence after this. Even Jeanette was silent. Everyone except Lillian was feeling uncomfortable. She liked what was going on. She had noticed how Catherine and Jackson had looked at each other. She knew they wanted to be with each other, and eventually they would be. And, too, she did not like this fellow Paul. She did not like the Ivy League clothes that he wore to impress people; she did not like his French accent; in short, she did not like him at all.
After a while, Paul’s hand slipped away from Catherine’s shoulder. He did not know why, but for the first time that night he thought his hand was out of place.
“Well, well, well,” Jeanette said. That was all for a while. Then she said, “Say, Paulie, baby, how would you like to give me a spin?”
“I have a partner, Jeanette,” Paul said.
“Ahh, come on, give a helpless little old Creole gal a break—huh, Paulie, baby, sweetheart, dumpling?”
Paul looked at Jeanette the way you might look at a bad child that you better not turn your back on. He whispered something to Catherine, and he and Jeanette went out on the floor. Jeanette looked back at the others and winked her eye, then she and Paul started dancing. Both were very good dancers.
“I’m going back,” Lillian said, walking away.
Catherine and Jackson were alone. There was a moment of silence between them.
“It’s awful warm, isn’t it?” Catherine said.
“Yes, it is.”
They were silent again. He was looking at her, but she pretended to be interested in the dancers out on the floor.
“Would you like some fresh air?” he asked her.
“That would be nice,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When they were outside, they went across the yard toward the church. Many more people had come out of the hall, and they were standing in the yard under the trees, talking and smoking. Catherine and Jackson moved through the crowd toward the back of the church.
“How has it been?” she asked him.
She had said it in the way she might have said it to a stranger that she was meeting in the street. It did not sound right to her, and not at all to Jackson. He did not answer her.
Catherine turned to him to see why he had not answered, and he pulled her closer and kissed her very hard on the mouth. She had wanted him to do this, and yet, for a moment, she fought against it before yielding to him.
“Why the other night, Catherine?”
“Where can it go?”
“Where do you want it to go?”
“You know I love you.”
“Do you?”
“Do you have to even ask?”
“Yes.”
She could not believe he meant it, and she moved away from him. There was a bench under one of the trees, and she went to the bench to sit down. He sat beside her.
“If you only knew what I’
ve gone through this week,” she said. “We both know how impossible …” She looked at him questioningly, even with hope. And at the same time, she knew what his answer would be.
“Why is it so impossible?”
“Could you ever come back here?”
“No, but you could leave.”
“Leave?” she said, as though the word awakened something in her.
He nodded. “Leave.”
She had thought about leaving. She had thought about leaving with him when she heard he was going back. But remembering them at home, she realized how insane the whole idea was.
“Why didn’t you go? I thought you had gone. Why didn’t you go?”
“You wish I had gone?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t, Catherine.”
She turned her head away. Her shoulders began trembling, and she brought her hand up to her face.
“It would have been better. It would have been better.” She looked at him again; she was crying. “I don’t like what you’re doing to me, Jackson. Don’t you see what you’re doing to me?”
“I love you. You don’t want me to love you?”
“You’re tormenting me.”
She stood up. He stood up with her. She touched at her eyes with a small pocket handkerchief and composed herself again.
“I have work to do,” she said. “This is my place. My work is here.”
“Your heart is with me. Mine is with you, Catherine.”
“Who can follow his heart the way time is?”
“I can.”
She looked at him. “Can you? No, you can’t.”
“If I were to stay, is that it?”
“Yes … if you were to stay.”
“You know that’s impossible. You know I can’t put up with this any more.”
“I know that,” she said hopelessly. “I knew it all the time. I was dreaming.”
“Is that why we quit seeing each other?”
“That’s part of it,” she said. She was leaning back against the church, looking far away. She looked at him again. “If you knew how much I wanted you … how much I wanted to go back to that room in Baton Rouge …” She looked away again.
Catherine Carmier Page 16
