"Warm," he repeated. "Got to keep warm, that's all."
But that wasn't all. I squeezed my eyelids shut as tightly as I could and began to tell myself this wasn't happening. I didn't feel what I felt moving up between my legs; I didn't feel my legs being forced apart and I didn't feel Papa force himself into me. He groaned and bit down my neck just soft enough not to draw blood. I gasped and started to pull myself away, but Papa swung his heavy body, cast and all, over me, driving me down against the mattress. He grunted and pressed on.
My cries were tiny, my tears quickly soaked up by the pillow and sheets. To me it seemed to go on and on for hours, when in reality it was only minutes. When it was over, Papa did not release me and he did not pull back. He held me just as tightly, his head against mine.
"Warm now," he muttered. I waited and waited, afraid to move, afraid to complain. A short while later, I heard him snore and I began a slow journey to extract myself from his grip and slide myself out from under his dead weight. It must have taken me hours, for I was terrified of waking him, but finally, I was free enough to put my leg down and then slip out and away. He groaned and then started to snore again.
I stood in the darkness, trembling, swallowing my sobs one after the other as each rose to the base of my throat. Afraid one would burst free and then another would follow, which would waken Papa, I tiptoed out of the room and into the dimly lit corridor. I took a deep breath and closed the door softly behind me. Then I turned to the right, thinking I would go to Mamma. But I hesitated. What could I tell her and what would she do? Would she understand? It could easily put Papa into a mad rage. No, I couldn't go to Mamma. I could go down to Vera and Charles, but I was too ashamed. I couldn't even tell Tottie.
I spun around and around, confused, my heart pounding, and then I rushed into the room where all the old pictures and artifacts were kept. I quickly found my real mother's picture and, embracing it, squatted on the floor. There I rocked and cried until I heard footsteps and saw the thin light of Emily's candle part the darkness. In moments she stood in the doorway.
She lifted her candle to let the light wash over me. "What are you doing in here? What's in your hands?"
I bit down on my lips and sobbed. I wanted to tell her what had happened; I wanted to shout it out.
"What is it?" she demanded. "What are you clutching? Let me see right now."
Slowly, I revealed my real mother's portrait. Emily looked surprised for a moment and then studied me closer.
"Stand up," she ordered. "Go on. Stand up." I did so.
Emily came closer, lifting the candle and walking around me.
"Look at you," she said suddenly. "You're having your time and you didn't prepare. What shame. Don't you have an ounce of self-respect?"
"I'm not having my time."
"Your nightgown is stained," she reported.
I sucked in my breath. This was the time to tell her, but the words were stuck in my throat.
"Put on a clean one and put on a sanitary napkin immediately," she ordered. "I swear," she said, shaking her head, "sometimes I think you're not only morally retarded, but mentally retarded as well."
"Emily," I began. I was so desperate, I had to tell someone, even her. "Emily, I . . ."
"I won't stand here in the dark another minute with you. Put that picture away," she said, "and go to sleep. You have much to do for Papa," she added. She turned quickly and left me in the darkness.
I shuddered with the thought of returning to Papa's bedroom, but I was afraid to do anything else. After I changed my nightgown, I returned, hesitating in the doorway to be sure he was still asleep. Then I quickly crawled into my makeshift bed and pulled the cover over me, folding myself into a fetal position. There I cried myself to sleep.
What Papa had done made me feel unclean, made me feel as if the stain was spreading through my body until it reached my heart. Not twenty, not a hundred, not a thousand baths would cleanse me of this darkness. My soul was tainted and blotched. In the morning when Emily saw me in the light of day, she would know I had been defiled. I would wear this stigma on my face forever.
Surely, I told myself, this was just another part of my punishment. I had no right to complain. Every bad thing that happened to me now, happened for a reason. Anyway, to whom would I complain? The people I loved and who loved me were either dead or gone or sick themselves. All I could do was pray for forgiveness.
Somehow, I thought, I had tempted Papa into doing a bad thing. Now something terrible would happen to him and once again, it would be my fault.
Papa woke first in the morning. He groaned and then shouted for me to wake.
"Give me that urine bottle," he ordered. I hopped out of bed and handed it to him. While he relieved himself, I quickly got into my bathrobe and slippers. When he was finished, I took the bottle into the bathroom and emptied it. But no sooner had I done that when he began to yell for his breakfast.
"Hot coffee and eggs this morning. I'm ravishingly hungry." He slapped his hands together and smiled. Could he have forgotten what he had done the night before? I wondered. There was no remorse, no guilt in his face.
"Yes, Papa," I said, avoiding his eyes and starting for the door.
"Lillian," he called. I turned, but kept my eyes lowered. Even though he had forced himself on me, it was I who felt ashamed. "Look at me whenever I speak to you," he demanded. I raised my head slowly. "That's better. Now then," he said, "you're doing a good job of taking care of me. I'm sure I'll get better faster because of it. And when someone does a good deed like you're doing, she makes up for some of the bad things she's done. The Lord is merciful. Just remember that," he said.
I swallowed back my urge to cry and smothered the moan that was trying to make its way up my throat. What about last night? I wanted to scream. Will the Lord forgive that too?
"Will you remember that?" he asked. It had the resonance of a threat instead of a question.
"I will, Papa."
"Good," he said. "Good." He nodded and I hurried out and down to the kitchen to get him his breakfast. Emily was already up and waiting at the table. I was sure she would know what had happened the moment she set eyes on me and recalled how she had found me the night before, but she looked at me no differently than she did every other morning. Her face was filled with the same contempt, the same disgust.
"Good morning, Emily," I said as I headed toward the kitchen. "I have to get Papa his breakfast."
"Just a minute," she snapped. I hesitated, but tried not to look directly at her.
"Did you do what you had to do last night to keep yourself clean?"
"Yes, Emily."
"You should keep track of your monthly time, keep track of it so it doesn't come as a surprise. Just remember why it comes—to remind us always of Eve's sin in Paradise."
"I will, Emily."
"Why did you sleep so late? Why weren't you in my room this morning to empty my chamberpot?" she asked quickly.
"I'm sorry, Emily, but . . ." I raised my eyes to her. Maybe, if I explained how it had happened . . . "But Papa was cold last night and . . ."
"Never mind all that," she said quickly. "I told you . . . you have to maintain your regular penance as well as look after all of Papa's needs. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Emily."
"Hmm," she said. She pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes into slits of suspicion. I decided if she asked me why I had gone to my real mother's picture, I would tell her. I would spit it at her. But she didn't ask because she didn't really care why I was in that room, sobbing.
"All right," she said after a moment. "When you're finished with Papa, go to my room and empty the pot."
"Yes, Emily." I released a trapped breath and continued into the kitchen where I found Vera was making Mamma some tea.
"I looked in on her this morning," Vera explained. "She said she had a bellyache and wanted nothing else."
"Mamma is sick?"
"She was probably eating those sweet chocolates all
night and overdid it," Vera said. "I swear she forgets from one moment to the other how many she's already eaten. How's the Captain this morning?"
"He's hungry," I said and told her what Papa wanted. Vera stared at me a moment.
"Are you all right, Lillian?" she asked softly. "You look on the pale side and tired." I shifted my eyes quickly.
"I'm fine, Vera," I replied, and bit down on my lower lip to lock up the screams and the cries that wanted to rush out. Vera remained skeptical but prepared Papa's breakfast quickly. I took the tray and left. I wanted to stop in and see Mamma on my way back up with Papa's breakfast, but Emily followed behind and rushed me along, forbidding it.
"His food will only get cold and he'll be upset," she warned. "You can look in on Mamma later. I'm sure it's nothing anyway. You know how she is."
Papa looked disappointed when he saw Emily follow me into his room. I set his tray on his bed table and then, before he could begin, Emily began the morning prayer.
"Keep it short this morning, Emily," he said. She shifted an annoyed look at me as if she blamed me for Papa's temperament and then abbreviated her reading.
"Amen," Papa said, the moment she finished. He dug into his eggs. Emily watched him eat for a few moments before turning to me.
"Get dressed," she ordered, "and come down for your own breakfast promptly. You still have your morning chores to do in my room and prayers to say."
"And then get right back up here," Papa added. "I have some letters for you to write and some orders for you to make out."
"Mamma's not feeling well today, Papa," I said. "Vera told me."
"Vera will look after her," he said. "Don't waste any time on her nonsense."
"I'll go in and see that she says a prayer," Emily assured us.
"Good," Papa said. He gulped his coffee and fixed his eyes on me. I looked away quickly and then hurried out to empty Emily's chamberpot and got dressed to go down to breakfast with her. Before I did, however, I snuck into Mamma's room.
Beneath her quilt, alone in her big bed with its thick dark oak posts and its wide headboard and footboard, and with her head settled softly in the middle of her large, fluffy pillow, Mamma looked like a little girl. Her face was as pale as a dull pearl and her unbrushed hair lay softly around her head. Her eyes were closed, but they snapped open when I approached. A gentle smile formed around her lips and brightened her eyes as soon as she saw me.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she said.
"Good morning, Mamma. I heard you weren't feeling well this morning."
"Oh, it's just a nasty tummyache. It's almost all gone already," she said, and reached for my hand.
I seized hers eagerly. Oh how I wanted to tell her what had happened. How I wanted to bury my head in her lap, to have her embrace and comfort me and tell me not to hate myself. How I needed to hear her reassure me and pet me and promise me I would be all right. I needed Mother-love, that link with something warm and tender. I longed to inhale her lavender scent and feel the softness of her hair. I hungered for her tender kisses and the peace that came over me when I felt secure in her arms.
I wanted to be a little girl again; I wanted to be that age before all the terrible truths were rained down upon me, when I was still young enough to believe in magic, when I sat on Mamma's lap or beside her with my head on her lap and listened to her soft voice as she wove the wonder of those fairy tales she used to read to Eugenia and me. Why did we have to grow up and enter a world full of deceit and ugliness? Why couldn't we be frozen in good times and kept prisoners of happiness?
"How is Eugenia this morning?" she asked before I could even think of telling her anything unpleasant.
"She's fine, Mamma," I said, choking back a sob.
"Good, good. I'll try to see her later. Is it warm and bright outside?" she asked. "It looks like it is," she said, turning toward the windows.
I realized I hadn't even looked out myself this morning. Vera had opened Mamma's curtains, but I saw a sky covered with dark gray clouds and not the blue sky Mamma thought she saw.
"Yes, Mamma," I said. "It's lovely."
"Good. Perhaps I'll take a walk today. Would you like to do that?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"Come by after lunch and we will then. We'll walk through the fields and pick some wildflowers. I need fresh flowers in my room. Okay?"
"All right, Mamma."
She patted my hand and then closed her eyes. A moment later, she smiled, but kept her eyes closed.
"I'm still a bit groggy, Violet," she said. "Tell Mamma I want to sleep a little longer."
Oh God, I thought, what's happening to her? Why does she still drift from one world to another and why doesn't anyone do more about it?
"Mamma, it's Lillian. I'm Lillian, not Violet," I insisted, but she didn't seem to hear or care.
"I'm so tired," she muttered. "I stayed up too late last night counting stars."
I stood there a few moments longer, holding her hand and staring down at her until her breathing became soft and regular and I realized she was asleep again. Then I let go of her hand and turned very slowly, feeling as if I were drifting away like a balloon in the wind, expecting to be tossed and tugged in the rough winds that awaited, the string that had slipped from a child's hand trailing beneath it.
Over the next few days, I really began to wonder myself whether or not the devil had possessed Papa to do what he had done to me. Papa made no reference to the incident, nor did he do or say anything to make me feel uncomfortable or ashamed. Instead, he rained compliments on me day after day, especially in Emily's presence.
"Lillian's better than a business manager," he declared. "She whips up those figures in no time and she spots mistakes with an eagle's eye. Why, she found where I've been paying too much for hog feed, didn't you, Lillian? People are always trying to squeeze an extra dollar out of you and they will, if you don't watch out. You done good work, Lillian. Mighty good work," he said.
Emily's eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips but she was forced to nod and tell me I was on the path of righteousness now.
"Just don't stray off it," she warned.
At the end of the week, the doctor came to see Papa and told him he should get a wheelchair and crutches and get up and out of the room.
"You need fresh air, Jed," he declared. "Your leg's broken, but the rest of you needs at least a little exercise. Seems to me," the doctor added, gazing my way, "you're being spoiled by all these pretty women waiting on you hand and foot, eh?"
"So what?" Papa snapped back. "You spend all your life working yourself to the bone for your family. It ain't no big deal for them to look after you once in a while."
"Of course," the doctor said.
It was Emily who suggested that Eugenia's old wheelchair be taken out of storage and given to Papa. Charles brought it up after he had oiled and polished it until it looked brand-new. That afternoon, Papa's crutches were delivered and he was up and out of his bed for the first time since the accident. But when Emily suggested he move himself down and into Eugenia's old bedroom, Papa balked.
"I'll be fine wheeling and moving around up here," he said. "When I'm ready to go downstairs, we'll work that out."
The thought of being in Eugenia's bedroom and sleeping in her bed seemed to terrify him. Instead, he ordered me to wheel him about the upstairs. I took him in to see Mamma and then he decided to take me for a tour through parts of the upstairs, describing the rooms, who lived in them and where he played as a little boy.
Getting out of his room raised his spirits and stimulated his appetite. Later that afternoon, I helped him shave and put on one of his nicer shirts. I had to cut the leg off one of his pairs of trousers so he could get them over his cast. He practiced with the crutches and worked at the desk. I was hoping that all this meant my days and nights of nursing him were coming to an end, but Papa didn't send me to my own room to sleep.
"I can get around, Lillian," he said, "but I still need you to help a while longer. You'
re willing, aren't you?" he asked. I nodded quickly and busied myself so he wouldn't see the disappointment in my face.
Papa began to receive some of his friends and one night, a few days later, he had a card game in his room. I brought them some refreshment and left to wait downstairs. Before all the men left, I had fallen asleep on the leather sofa in Papa's office. I heard them laughing as they came down the stairs and I hurried up to see what Papa wanted before he went to sleep. I found him in a very angry mood. He had drunk a lot and apparently had lost a lot of money, too.
"I'm just in a bad streak of luck," he muttered. "Help me get these things off," he cried a moment later and began tearing off his shirt. I rushed to him and helped him undress, pulling off his boot and socks and then tugging off his customized trousers. He wasn't very cooperative, tossing about and cursing his hard luck. He kept reaching for his glass of bourbon and when that was emptied, demanded I fill it up again.
"But it's late, Papa," I said. "Don't you want to go to sleep now?"
"Just pour my whiskey and don't nag," he snapped. I did it quickly and then folded his clothes.
I cleaned up after Papa's friends and tried airing out the room. There had been so much cigar smoke that the very walls stunk, but Papa didn't seem to care. He drank himself to sleep, muttering about his mistakes at cards.
Exhausted, I finally turned in myself. Hours later, I awoke to the sound of his crashing on the floor. From what I could gather, he had forgotten his broken leg and, in a drunken stupor, tried to get up to go to the bathroom. I got up quickly and rushed to help him, but lifting him was beyond me. He was a dead weight, doing nothing to assist my efforts.
"Papa," I pleaded. "You're on the floor. Try to get back to bed."
Cutler 5 - Darkest Hour Page 23
