Bellefleur

by Joyce Carol Oates

  No, no, no, Hiram muttered, grinding his teeth, trying to force himself awake, no, you don’t, not again, not for a second time, leaving me to the humiliation . . . the shame . . . the loneliness night after night. . . . But he could not manage to wake up. It was about five-thirty in the afternoon, the sun shone vigorously through his latticed windows, down on the lawn the children were noisy and a dog was barking foolishly, yet he could not quite force himself awake; and suddenly his tearful bride was back in his bed, in his arms, and he was trying desperately to think of something—anything—to say to her, to explain himself, or to apologize, but her panicked odor disturbed him, her wet dark warm intimate odor, he could not think of a single word to say, not even in his own defense, it exasperated and maddened him that the woman wept so frequently, and turned herself from him in shame—in modesty—though of course he did somewhat despise her, for certain bodily weaknesses she could not control, and were, indeed, part of being female—as he surely understood—and did not truly blame her—except—if only they were downstairs in the drawing room or the Great Hall or at the dinner table, fully and formally clothed, with witnesses to hear and appreciate his remarks!—but, alas, they were, as it seemed they forever were, trapped in that bed that stank of panting futile exertion, and he could not think of a word, not a single saving word, to utter.

  Then, abruptly, he woke.

  He did awake. And lay there, in his vested suit, with his pocket watch ticking confidently away, his toes in calf-high black silk stockings twitching with exasperation. But the odor was still in the room with him. That wet dark warm furry intimate odor, with its slight scent of blood. Yes, blood. It was blood. How odd, how very odd, how disgustingly odd, the dream-stench was still in the room with him; it was, in fact, in his very bed.

  “What—!”

  He exclaimed angrily, having pulled back the covers to see an astonishing sight: one of the ginger cats lying on her side in the bed, four hairless, blind kittens nursing and mewing and kneading her belly with their tiny paws.

  A mother cat had burrowed her way into his bed, to give birth to her kittens! And she had made a mess, a repulsive mess, damp bloodstains and bits of skin or flesh. . . .

  “How dare you, how dare you,” Hiram cried, shrinking away from the creature, until his back pressed hard against the headboard, and the entire bed shook with the intensity of his disgust.

  THAT AFTERNOON, HE rang at once for a servant, and angrily ordered the woman to drive away the cat and her kittens, and to clean up the mess in his bed. And he stalked out of the room, fairly quivering with outrage. What could the fools who ran the household be thinking, to allow a mother cat to give birth to her kittens in his room, in his very bed! It was unspeakable.

  He complained at great length to whoever would listen—Noel, Cornelia, Lily, even, later in the day, aunt Veronica; Leah had no time for him (she was vexed and rattled from a two-hour telephone conversation with their Vanderpoel broker), but instructed her manservant to take care of the situation. By which, she said sternly, looking Nightshade full in the face (for he was now as tall as she, though his posture was always craven in her presence), by which I do not mean you should put the kittens to death.

  For they were so clearly Mahalaleel’s kittens, they would grow up to be beautiful creatures: they must be allowed to live.

  So Nightshade and two or three of the young visiting cousins set up a comfortable bed for the cat, in a corner of a supply-room adjacent to the kitchen. It was an ordinary cardboard box set on its side, with soft rags for the mother cat to lie on, and bowls of fresh water, milk, and chicken scraps nearby. Since the blind kittens were sensitive to light, the room would have to be kept fairly dark; and of course the mother cat’s privacy would have to be respected. No one should peek in on her—at least not very often. Nor should the kittens (so darling!—tiny and near-hairless as baby rats) be handled since they were so extremely delicate.

  The new bed was established, and though the mother cat—a pretty silky marmalade with striking white paws and a white mask in which her greenish eyes glowed—was hostile at first, and clearly disoriented, she seemed, after a few hours, to have adjusted.

  And so Hiram quite naturally forgot about the incident. For he had so much to think about, so very much to think about, the negotiations for that final 1,500-acre block of land had hit a snag, and there might very well be a walk-out at Belleview, and a similar workers’ uprising at Innisfail. . . . He was away on business for the weekend, and when he returned, hurriedly preceding the servant who carried his suitcase, he threw open the door of his room and was struck at once by the odor: an odor so intense, in a way so sly, that he was nauseated. His eyes fairly started from his head, he looked from side to side, resisting the impulse to gag, while the idiotic servant carried his suitcase into his dressing room as if nothing were amiss. The cat! Her smell hadn’t been eradicated! Though he had expressly ordered the maids to clean the bed, even to change the mattress, and to air out the room thoroughly . . .

  “That smell, Harold,” he said.

  The servant turned politely to him, raising his eyebrows. Quite clearly the fool was pretending not to notice. “Sir . . . ?”

  “That smell. How can I be expected to remain in this room, how in God’s name can I be expected to sleep in that bed, with this horrific smell. . . . I had asked the pack of you, as you must recall, to clean out my room.”

  “Sir?” the servant said, blinking slowly. His parchment-colored forehead crinkled into a row of perfunctory wrinkles, but his calm level mocking gaze remained unchanged.

  Hiram, his heart thudding, made an exasperated gesture as if he wished to brush the fool out of the way; but he went instead to the bed, and flung back the covers.

  And there—again—incredibly—there—the silky ginger cat lay on her side, sleepily licking one of the tiny kittens (who was mewing and paddling the air frantically) while the other three, their bluish-orangish-gray skin rippling with the intensity of their hunger, nursed at their mother’s teats.

  “This is—this is insufferable—” Hiram cried.

  So great was the mother cat’s audacity, she merely gazed at Hiram, and continued her rough washing as though nothing were amiss.

  “I tell you, Harold,” Hiram said, in a shrill voice, “this is insufferable.”

  He lunged for the cats—the mother cat hissed, and appeared to lunge at him—in a blind rage he snatched up one of the ratlike things, repulsive as it was with its swollen little belly that looked as if it might burst, and a dribble of watery excrement running down its hind legs—and threw it against the wall. Where it struck with a surprising cracklike noise, and fell, dead, to the floor.

  “Get them out of here! Get them out of here! Every last one of them!” he shouted, clapping his hands, as the frightened servant stared. “And clean the bed! Change the mattress! At once! I command you! All of you! Under threat of dismissal! Change the mattress and clean the room and air everything out, at once, at once!”

  SO, INDEED, HIS command was obeyed. A flurry of servants, both men and women, changed not only the mattress of his bed but the bed itself, having located, at grandmother Cornelia’s instructions, a handsome bed with a brass headstand in one of the attic storerooms; they changed the carpet, and the heavy velvet draperies, and threw open all the windows so that a fine clean breeze aired the room completely out, and gave it an odor of sun-warmed grass, and the indefinable scent of the mountains. Now, said Cornelia in an undertone, surveying the servants’ work with approval, that absurd old man should be satisfied.

  And so, cautiously, he was.

  “And has that disgusting creature been done away with?” he asked, “and those even more disgusting kittens?”

  They assured him (not altogether truthfully: for the mother cat and her kittens had been moved to one of the barns, cardboard box, rags, bowls of food and all) that of course she had been done away with, and would never bother him again.

  “It really is—was—insuffe
rable,” he muttered.

  BUT THEN ONE afternoon, not three days later, Hiram returned to his room after a lengthy midday meal, and saw, as he approached his end of the corridor, something trotting along . . . something trotting along, head slightly lowered . . . cat-sized . . . and at the door to his room the thing nudged the door open (for evidently it had been left ajar) and slipped inside.

  It can’t be, he thought wildly. It cannot be.

  They had killed the cat and her kittens according to his instructions, but surely that was the cat, once again, carrying a kitten (for he had caught a dim glimpse of something in her jaws) by the scruff of its neck. . . .

  He began to shout. He ran into the room, and saw a hellish sight: the very same ginger cat with the white mask and white paws and greenish eyes, a squirming kitten in her teeth, just lowering the kitten to his bed. She had made a kind of nest for herself by burrowing beneath the covers, and had managed to pull back the heavy brocaded spread. What was most hellish was the fact that there were three kittens already nestled there, in addition to the one she was just bringing. All four were mewing piteously, and paddling the air with their tiny paws.

  “This cannot be! I refuse to acknowledge it!” Hiram cried.

  Even in his consternation he was clear-minded enough to realize that of course the household staff, and even his sister-in-law, had lied to him: humored him: as if he were a ridiculous old man. Which added considerably to his rage. And this time the ginger cat quite insolently confronted him, refusing to be driven away by his shouts and handclapping. Her pretty ears were laid back, her eyes narrowed, she crouched just in front of her brood to protect them, and hissed, and growled deep in her throat. And when the infuriated Hiram lunged toward her to seize her by the throat she slashed out, so quickly her movement was no more than a blur, and caught him with a single claw on his upper lip.

  “How dare you— How dare you—” Hiram sobbed, scrambling away.

  That claw, that single claw (it was in fact a dewclaw), was so remarkably sharp, far sharper and more treacherous than a needle, that Hiram was quite astonished; and the sight and taste of his own blood demoralized him (though there wasn’t much blood, really—the scratch was a minor one.)

  “Oh, how dare you—all of you—how dare—how dare you—” the poor man wept.

  THEY FOUND HIM, sobbing inconsolably. He was sitting in a corner of his darkened room, in a rocking chair, bent over, his eyeglasses fallen to the carpet. I’m going to die, he whispered. She has scratched me, she has drawn my blood, and infected me, I’m going to die, he said, grasping feebly at his brother’s arm. Noel told him not to be a fool, why didn’t they turn on some lights, for God’s sake, what was this?—and when they lit the lamps they saw the ginger cat curled in Hiram’s bed, the kittens sleeping beside her, perfectly content. The cat blinked drowsily at them but made no movement to escape.

  “No one has ever died of a tiny cat scratch,” Noel said, laughing.

  Brown Lucy

  Brown Lucy, Lucy Varrell, drunken and hilarious, naked, her great ungainly breasts leaking milk, milk for his baby (a son, not yet named: she had managed to beat poor clothespin-lipped Hilda by two or three weeks, and did not even mind—for such was her savage good nature, and one of the reasons Jean-Pierre could not stay away from her—that he boasted to whoever would listen), straddling him in her upstairs room at the Fort Hanna House, riding him, slapping him playfully but hard up and down his sides, against his quivering thighs, until, suddenly delirious, he began to shout. A dribble of watery milk across his face, her uncombed grease-stiffened hair cascading against his eyes and mouth. Don’t! Don’t! Stop! Oh, Sarah—

  AT THE LAND commission office at Fort Hanna there was excited, gloating talk of the bankruptcy, and the imprisonment, of Alexander Macomb himself.

  In his elegant gentleman’s attire the son-in-law of Roger Osborne, one Jean-Pierre Bellefleur, arrived to negotiate for the purchase of certain wilderness lands; but once in Fort Hanna, and having journeyed as far north as the trading settlement at Paie-des-Sables, he was possessed of a notion to buy up everything he could, or, to the contrary, sell the holdings he had already bought from Macomb’s agent in New York, and return to the city at once.

  The wilderness! The mountains! The broad flat Nautauga River! . . . In Manhattan his father-in-law, though infirm, had spoken with zest of the riches of the north—the uncut pine, the firs—and, seated in the dark-paneled library of the Broadway town house, he had insisted that Macomb’s extravagant purchase of the ten townships (townships formed after the destitute Oneida Indians were forced to cede their land to the state) was a brilliant move: for within two years Macomb had resold the land, at considerable profit, to other speculators: and the way was now cleared for . . .

  But now Macomb was bankrupt, people said. And jailed.

  Here, in Fort Hanna, the Northern Missionary Society contended with the loose brawling community of trappers and traders and ex-soldiers and whores like Brown Lucy who (so rumor had it, but the rumor was false) had acquired fortunes. Brown Lucy and Erasmus Goodheart and a former secretary of Aschthor—John Jacob Astor—and other members of the “criminal element” Roger Osborne feared might corrupt his immature son-in-law.

  Goodheart, for instance. Drinking with Goodheart at Fort Hanna House. The man claimed to be part Algonquin, part Seneca, part Dutch, and part Irish. He looked no more Indian than Jean-Pierre. He had been, evidently, Lucy’s lover. In a manner of speaking. He was one of those who spread the rumor, perhaps not maliciously, that Lucy had a small fortune hidden away—it added to her value, her charm. (The first sight Jean-Pierre had of the woman was a discouraging one: she was big, and the bigness appeared to be muscle, except for the large, flimsily-corseted breasts; she was much younger than he had anticipated, and good-looking in a harsh jocular way. He would, he saw, have to compete for her attentions.)

  When Jean-Pierre first arrived in the north country the wilderness frightened him except when he had downed a certain number of drinks. His first tumbler at midday, the best he could acquire in this wretched part of the world, sipped like wine. My dear Hilda, he wrote, Each day is a tumult of new impressions & new knowledge . . . I scarcely know what to think. . . . The wilderness land awakes in us (I must say us because we seem all equally afflicted, except for the Indians who remain, and the elderly or infirm or mysteriously dispirited) a sense of . . . a sense . . . He crumpled the letter and began again, irritated at his task, for not only did he resent having to write to her (whom he did not love) but he gravely resented the fact that it was so devilishly difficult to express what he felt (when in conversation he was glibly skillful, and could make anyone understand his meaning or at least acquiesce to it). My dear Hilda, The air is intoxicating, I lie awake as demons cavort in my skull, drawing me in one direction and then in another . . . enticing me to this, or to that. . . . The wilderness land is alive. I did not grasp that earlier. Nor does your father understand, with his prattle of . . . his smug prattle of . . . He pushed the stiff sheet of paper aside, and poured another inch or two of whiskey into his glass. Gently, like the brushing of a lover’s eyelashes against one’s cheek, the image of the girl Sarah touched him: touched his overheated skin. He had not thought she would follow him here, so far from the place he had last glimpsed her. By now she was settled in England, by now she might even be married, it was not a preposterous thought, he had lost her forever, he had made a fool of himself, married to a washboard-plain woman whom he did not love but who was too sweet, too self-effacing, for him to dislike with pleasure. And then too there was the dowry. And the father-in-law’s generosity. (Was Osborne senile, or somewhat rattled by the drugs his physician fed him; or was he simply anxious to keep Jean-Pierre happy?) My dear Hilda, Jean-Pierre wrote, in a sudden frenzy, There is only one principle here as elsewhere, but here it is naked & one cannot be deceived: the lust for acquisition: furs & timber: timber & furs: game: to snatch from this domain all it might yield greedy as men who have gone fo
r days without eating suddenly ushered into a banquet hall & left to their own devices. One stuffs oneself, it is a frenzy, the lust to lay hands on everything, to beat out others, for the others are enemies. At the banquet there is so much food! There is in fact a surplus of food! But we are all the more ravenous, we cannot contain ourselves, we fear there won’t be enough to go around and so we must gobble up everything on the table. . . .

  But Hilda would not understand. Would be frightened at his passion, and show the letter to her father.

  My dear Hilda, he wrote, his hand more controlled, I shall never voluntarily leave this wilderness paradise.

  MANY MONTHS LATER Brown Lucy rolled from bed, and padded out barefoot into the back room, and returned a minute later with a pail of fish heads and tails and guts which she dumped atop her lover.

  “That’s for your Sarah! Your precious Sarah!” she screamed.

  Half-awake he tried to protect himself but the shock was paralyzing: to hear her name uttered aloud, when he had carried it with him for so long, in secret. . . .

  “But how did you know,” he said, wiping frantically at himself, “you filthy bitch, goddamn you!—how did you know?”

  “And Sarah isn’t the name of the one in New York, is she!” the woman shouted. She rushed at him, her breasts swinging, and he turned aside and lost his balance and fell back across the bed, into the remains of the fish. (His fish, brook trout, which she had cleaned for him.) “Liar. Bastard.”

  “But how did you know?” Jean-Pierre cried in a daze.

  SO IT WENT, months and years. One must surmise.

  THERE WAS, AS well, sinewy yellow-eyed Goodheart, with his scarred forehead and rotting teeth and a lurid cascade of tattoos on both arms, telling Jean-Pierre, when they were alone, and drinking far into the night, of the old days at Johnson Hall, when Sir William was his majesty’s General Agent for Indian Affairs. Before the old man died of apoplexy in 1774. Before his sons inherited his estate, and his position, and everything went bad. The tribes of the Six Nations had gathered at Johnson Hall every summer for their games, and there were days and days of celebrating, and more food than anyone could eat, provided by the Crown. But Jean-Pierre had difficulty envisioning those days.