Cursed by Christ

by Matthew Warner

  She groped for a change of subject. “Uh—did you say the negroes ‘around here’?”

  “What of it?”

  “Just hearsay about the Parker Plantation.”

  And it was indeed hearsay, but she needed to talk to him about something new and regain his respect.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, all right: I heard the negroes there are talking about unionizing for next year.”

  “Unionizing!” Punching the table, Thorne leapt to his feet. “My god, why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  “You were out of town.”

  “We can’t allow no union, even if it is way off at Parker’s. That’s dangerous.”

  Heart pounding, she felt bewildered. Oh no, what had she done now? “Dangerous? I know unions can be bad, but how—”

  “Because it could mean the general massacre of the white population, that’s how. Thank you, Alice. I need to find Mister Parker right away.”

  He hurried back inside and pounded down the stairs. Despite the late hour, he went directly to the stable, tacked up his horse, and left.

  That night, with Thorne gone, Alice couldn’t sleep. She fought guilty pangs that caused her to roam the halls. She hoped some poor field hand wasn’t roughed-up on account of her careless trafficking in rumors.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Two of Thorne’s own workers disappeared not long afterward—no one knew exactly when or why. Thorne proclaimed loudly that if he ever saw the “deserters” again, he’d punish them severely for breach of contract. It was a quite believable temper tantrum, so Alice chose to believe him.

  Thorne had plenty of other fits as the South’s death knell tolled ever louder that winter. The U.S. Congress was like the two-gunned Wild Bill Hickok of Kansas. With one gun, it held hostage Georgia’s readmission to national politics until the state ratified the Fourteenth Amendment and limped through its second constitutional convention in as many years, this time with biracial suffrage. With the other gun, as insurance, it kept the state under martial law. Nine other states suffered similarly. Between the Amendment and the new state constitutions, black suffrage was imminent. And since enfranchised negroes would likely re-elect the same Congressional Republicans who’d punished the Southern planters and fill the new state legislatures with Republicans, Thorne and other white men verily frothed at their mouths as one convention after another convened that winter.

  To worsen matters, the only willing Democrat sufficiently powerful to help the planters, President Andrew Johnson, was on a collision course with Congress over his Reconstruction policies. It was like watching the clash of two titans—say, Jesus and Satan, although Alice tried not to carry the comparison too far.

  According to Thorne, Johnson was originally from the South and favored policies conciliatory to the planters while Congress adhered to the hard line drawn by its Yankee constituents. The result had been an almost comical back-and-forth between Congress and the president that was repeated, it seemed, with every legislative act: a bill passes, the president vetoes, and Congress overrides. A Constitutionally explosive battle had ensued over cabinet appointments, particularly the secretary of war, whose occupant could affect the military oversight of the South; the president and Congress naturally had different favorite sons. The House had talked of impeaching Johnson ever since December 1866, and a year later they actually voted on it. Alice learned the outcome of this event the day a group of army soldiers were due to visit the plantation.

  Thorne and Obie were sitting in the study, reading the newspaper by the fire and waiting for their guests to arrive. Alice had spent the last half hour hovering in the hallway and pantry, unsure whether she was welcome to join them.

  Thorne settled the question by calling to her: “Alice, did you see this in the paper?”

  She was instantly there, hands folded primly at her stomach. Thorne, seated in his rocker, took his feet off the footstool and laid the newspaper across it. He gestured at the headline, but she stared at him instead. It wasn’t often that she saw him smile.

  “Johnson got off,” he said. “He’s not going to be impeached.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful.” She didn’t move a muscle, unsure how to react to this latest change of mood. If she said more, would Thorne explode in anger and tell her not to talk so much, as he always did?

  Reading, Thorne said, “The vote was one-oh-eight to—” He stopped and looked up at her. Another smile. “There’s brandy in my desk I’ve been saving. Get some glasses and pour us some, and one for yourself.”

  A brick of nervousness in her throat, Alice retrieved three tumblers from the pantry and placed them on Thorne’s desk. He told her where to find the bottle. She damn near dropped it.

  As she poured, she noticed a leather purse at the corner of the desk. Scratched and rough, it looked as if it’d be more at home strapped to a horse’s flank, sloshing through swollen rivers.

  She felt bold, so she said, “Darling, what’s this?”

  A moment passed in which Alice held her breath, watching Thorne look away and rustle the newspaper. A log settled in the flames.

  “That’s the money Bedford loaned me.” He sounded uncomfortable.

  Of course. She’d known Bedford Forrest had loaned him money during his last trip and that today’s meeting had to have something to do with this new solvency, but it hadn’t registered that Thorne might have taken the loan in cash. Loans were of course completely necessary. The money she earned sewing was pocket change in comparison.

  Hands trembling—excited by the rare honor of drinking liquor with the men—she served their drinks. She took her own and sat in a wooden armchair.

  Thorne downed half his glass at once, grimacing and baring his teeth afterward. “Ahhh.”

  Obie simply placed his on a table. He looked nauseous, and his hands twisted oddly as he folded them in his lap.

  Alice would have asked him about this, but at that moment their guests arrived. She informed Thorne that she heard knocking, because he could hear nothing, and then excused herself.

  When she opened the front door, a gray-haired Army major stepped in. “You must be the lady of the house.”

  His beard reminded Alice of Poppa’s. Had it really been over seven years since her parents died?

  When she didn’t answer (too busy staring at him), the major coughed. “I’m Major Collins, and this is my aide.” He nodded to the young man behind him, whose babyfat face belied the War stress carried by his eyes.

  They all stared at each other through another beat of silence. Alice blinked, unsure of herself. It had been months since they’d had visitors, and her social graces engaged like broken clock gears. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

  “I’m Alice.”

  Thorne called, “Alice? Are they here? Show them in.”

  She did so, feeling horrible. She had always felt that her ability to play hostess was one Thorne’s few reasons for keeping her around, so it wouldn’t do to act like this.

  Showing his crooked teeth, Thorne shook the fellows’ hands. “Thorton B. Norwick, at your service. Any trouble on the way here?” Before they could answer, Thorne bellowed, “Eliza! Eliza, come here!”

  Eliza Tefera appeared in the pantry doorway. Her stomach, six months ripe with pregnancy, seemed ready to overbalance her. Alice felt her usual pang of jealousy.

  Stop it, she told herself. Focus on the business at hand, or you’ll embarrass yourself again.

  The cook kept her eyes averted, just as she did when a slave.

  “Wood and drinks.” Thorne pointed to the fireplace and his guests.

  With an amused air, Major Collins and his aide watched Eliza stoke the fire. “Is that brandy? I’ll have a brandy.”

  Alice gave him hers. “Here, I haven’t touched it.”

  The guests irritated her. A pregnant woman stood before them, throwing logs onto their fire and exerting herself, and these supposed gentlemen weren’t lifting a finger. She would have done something herself, b
ut she was the hostess, and it wasn’t her place to be chivalrous.

  “That’s fine,” Thorne said. “Hurry up now, another glass for the major.”

  “Yes, Mister Thorne,” Eliza said, and returned to the pantry.

  Alice watched for Thorne’s reaction. Lately Eliza had stopped addressing him as “Massa”—three years after the end of slavery, it was about time—and sometimes Thorne visibly flinched.

  He cocked an eyebrow at Major Collins. “You are a major, are you not? I’m not that familiar with uniforms.”

  “Why, Mister Thorne—I mean, Norwick,” Collins said, smirking, “I do believe you’re trying to downplay your previous association with the rebel army.”

  “Of course not.” He looked away as Eliza returned with a glass. “Careful with that bottle. Christ, don’t know how much I paid for it.”

  Collins laced his fingers at his chest and flexed them as he smiled at Thorne. He ignored the drink Eliza offered him, so she set it on the table by Obie and left the room. Alice was suddenly aware of his saber, which hung from his belt and touched the floor.

  “Oh, I do find this most amusing,” Collins said. “A former rebel—and Confederate officer at that—sends me an eloquent letter begging for the pleasure of my company at noon sharp, December the ninth.”

  “And I thank you for taking the time to—”

  “I can see my report now to General Pope: ‘Sir, interested as I am in promoting harmonious relationships with the civilians of the third district, I was most curious as to the reason for this unexpected invitation. I did so call upon Mister Thorne Norwick at the appointed hour, whereupon he attempted to convince me, through the most subtle rhetorical devices, that he was not once a Confederate colonel serving in the cavalry of General Nathan Bedford Forrest.’”

  “Sir, please, you’re reading too much into—”

  “‘I can only conclude that he anticipates the reinstatement of civilian governance, and that this former rebel wishes to circumvent statutorial prohibitions against office holding by the same.’”

  “How ridiculous!” Twisting, Thorne threw his drink into the fireplace, where the glass broke.

  Everyone sat there, stunned.

  Thorne leapt to his feet. “How dare you come into my house, making these accusations when I haven’t even told you …”

  Then everyone rose, shouting. The major: “Sir, if this is your idea of Southern hospitality …”

  “You’d do well to restrain your passions!” the aide said.

  “Gentleman, please!” Alice said. “Don’t resort to violence.”

  But her voice was lost in the melee. Thorne, the major, and his aide stood in the middle of the room. Their faces turned red as they ripped the scabs off old anger. Only Obie remained seated, looking sad and sick.

  Alice fainted.

  Or rather, she acted as if she fainted. It was a social tool she hadn’t used in years.

  It was like a blanket thrown onto a fire. Their shouts caught in their throats, and all three men scrambled to support her. It didn’t matter that Alice hadn’t bothered with corsets in two years—the real cause of women’s excessive fainting. Men expected females to swoon at the slightest provocation.

  In moments, they had deposited her on the fainting couch in the foyer, where the cooler air would “revive” her. Major Collins cracked the front door to let in a stream of December cold.

  “I’m all right, thank you. Oh dear my, just a trifle lightheaded in the excitement.”

  They stood around, shuffling their feet, until Eliza appeared at the end of the hall.

  Thorne snapped his fingers. “Eliza, take care of her. We have business to attend to.”

  “Yes, Mist—”

  “And another glass for me, when you have a moment.”

  Leaving Alice in the foyer, the men returned to the study, closing the door behind them. The years had warped the wood, however, so the door sprung free of its latch and fell back open a crack. She could therefore clearly hear the men’s grunts and scraping chairs as they settled.

  She shooed off Eliza with, “No thank you, I’m fine, really.”

  Thorne’s voice: “Good, it’s better this way. She was making the air uncomfortable. Right, Obie?”

  “Y-yes. Intercourse with men is easier without women present.”

  Major Collins cleared his throat. “Indeed. She had a most interfering presence.”

  They paused as the pantry door creaked. “Thankee, now get,” Thorne said. Eliza had apparently handed him his glass.

  Crossing her legs on the fainting couch, Alice ignored these de rigueur comments and settled in to eavesdrop. She was curious herself as to why Thorne had called this meeting.

  “You were partially correct, of course,” Thorne said. “I do wish to discuss office-holding.”

  “Uh huh,” Collins said, sounding tired.

  “But not for myself. I wish to make you aware of the quality of life around here, the need for law enforcement. The negroes are getting very, shall we say, uppity, as the prospect of civilian governance approaches. I do believe Georgia’s convention is scheduled to begin this month, as a matter of fact—”

  “Today.”

  “Yes, today, and the negroes and carpetbaggers see this as Armageddon, their opportunity to re-establish anarchy and elect their favorite Republicans, who—”

  “Mister Norwick,” Collins said. “I do have other appointments today.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I should get right to the point.”

  “If you please.”

  “Well, my overseer here, Obie Redger, will be quite idle this spring as I’m contemplating leasing my land to sharecroppers. …”

  Alice raised her eyebrows. What kind of lie was this?

  “And I felt the general should wish to deputize him as constable, responsible for the Norwicktown area.”

  A long period of silence ensued.

  Alice wished she were in there to see the men’s faces. This was quite unusual—quite scandalous. Georgia was under martial law. For a former rebel to ask them simply to hand over this area to his own man was like Moses asking Pharaoh to free the Jews.

  What on this world, she wondered, makes Thorne believe he can get away with this?

  Thorne broke the silence, sounding less sure of himself. “I realize the awkwardness of this since Obie’s not even an army regular. But I thought you might welcome the chance to delegate the peacekeeping of this area, freeing up your manpower for greater duties.”

  More silence.

  “I assure you that the present law enforcement is most inadequate,” Thorne said. “It requires the full-time attention of a local—someone familiar with the populace and with a vested interest in its safety.”

  Another pause. Alice heard Major Collins make a thoughtful noise as he sipped his drink.

  Sounding more desperate, Thorne said, “This is not to disparage the capable military oversight of the general, but I fear the army is spread too thinly over Georgia to ensure our safety.”

  Major Collins finally spoke. A chuckle, actually. It rose to a full laugh.

  “What do you find amusing, sir?” Thorne said.

  Collins’s answer chilled Alice where she lay: “This is a practical joke, is it not? I’m supposed to find it amusing.”

  A pause, and then Thorne sighed. “Obie, I see that door is still open. Will you close it, please?”

  The door slammed the rest of the way shut, and Alice heard no more.

  They stayed in there until late evening. The men came out only for their frequent trips to the outhouse, or for Thorne to demand more liquor from Eliza—“anything I have, goddammit, I don’t care. Here, take this. Run out and buy more.”

  Sounds of gregariousness came from the study: laughter and the men talking loudly and at once. Sometimes a shout. They even sang a few drinking songs, Thorne’s deaf-man’s warble crescendoing tunelessly above the others.

  She told herself that this was a good sign and tried to do some
sewing. She kept losing concentration, however, so she went to help Eliza cook and clean. But Eliza soon hinted, politely, that the missus was only getting in the way.

  At one point, she considered freeing the angel’s wings from their mental cage in order to try to learn what was happening but decided it was too risky. Using them for anything more than self-exploration, with the aid of her dining room mirror, was like playing with a dangerous, winged animal. She had never forgotten her brush with insanity during that summer before Momma taught her to meditate upon roses. That being said, she could do little to prevent the mist and wind of others’ thoughts from sometimes blowing through the bars of that cage.

  After a dinner of vegetable stew—which the men declined in favor of drink—she took vigil in the drawing room, where she could look across the foyer at one of the study’s closed doors. She sat there as night drained light from the room. Before Eliza retired to her cabin, she asked if the missus wished for a candle, but Alice refused.

  She watched the clock in the dark. Like many standing clocks, their Helmsley model had no minute hand. This made the hours on this night drag. Surely Christ had slowed the revolutions of time especially to prolong her life’s agonies, both large and small.

  The hour hand was a few degrees shy of midnight when Major Collins’s aide finally opened the door and swaggered out like a king. He belched.

  “Well, that’s what happens when you get too tight to hold air,” Major Collins said.

  Alice emerged from her pool of darkness to stand by the door. The aide collapsed on the fainting couch and didn’t notice her.

  She saw Thorne and Collins, faces flushed with alcohol, standing by the dying fire and shaking hands. The act unbalanced the major, obliging him to catch Thorne’s shoulder. They both laughed.

  “Mister Norwick, Mister Redger, we do thank you for—” Collins noticed Alice peering in and seemed confused, as if he didn’t recognize her. “Um, what was I saying?”

  While the major and Thorne chuckled again, Obie just smiled politely. He looked as if he’d been doing a lot of that. He also appeared as sober as he’d been earlier that day. Alice saw that the original drink Eliza had served Obie that afternoon remained untouched on the end table.