Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Hélène glanced at him sideways. It was impossible to tell if he welcomed change or regretted it. She said nothing, and after a while he started up the engine again, and they drove on. She had thought of him as a silent man, his silences perturbing and unnerving her. But now he talked and talked, hardly even looking at her, bombarding her with information—yield, acreage, boll weevils, insecticides, commodity crops; her head spun. It seemed to her he was talking to himself, or carrying on some argument with someone else who wasn’t there. Eventually he stopped the car again. Two hundred yards away there was a group of tarpaper shacks, a curl of wood-smoke, two or three dark figures. Suddenly, he slammed his hand down on the steering wheel.

  “A hundred and fifty years! That’s what they don’t understand, those goddamn Yankees up in Washington. History—that’s what you’re looking at. History. A way of life that works, that’s gone on working…I grew up with it. I know.” He lifted his hand and pointed to the shacks. “You see those? My daddy had those put up. I own them. Maintain them. Keep the roofs fixed. Put in the pumps, the water supply. Pay them more wages, and they just drink it away. So I do the same thing my daddy did, and his daddy before him. They need a doctor, I fix it for them to see one. They run short of food, I take care of it. They’re happy, that’s what they can’t understand up north…” He broke off, then pointed. In the distance Hélène could just see the steep roof of the big house beyond the trees. From the roof a patch of color drooped in the still air. Ned Calvert turned back to her.

  “You American enough to recognize that flag?”

  “Of course.” Hélène gave him a scornful glance. “It’s the Confederate flag.”

  Ned Calvert grinned. “Sure is. My granddaddy flew it. My daddy flew it. And sure as hell I’m not planning on taking it down…”

  “You don’t have a son,” Hélène said quietly.

  “What?” He looked at her intently suddenly, then his face crinkled up and he threw back his head and laughed.

  “You’re straight. I like that. No—I don’t have a son. But then, I’m not planning on dying just yet, either.” He leaned across and pushed open her door. Just for a second she felt the heat of his skin.

  “Come on out. Have a look around.” He got out beside her, gave her a quick glance. “One thing though. You don’t shake hands with the nigras—you know that? They wouldn’t understand.”

  “Your mother all right, is she?”

  He was driving her back as the shadows lengthened, taking a roundabout route, Hélène thought, that skirted the fields and wound over toward the house. He put the question suddenly, out of a long, abstracted silence, startling her. Her hands tightened in her lap.

  “Yes. Fine.” She paused. “Tired maybe. She hates it when it’s very hot like this.”

  “Good. I just got thinking…Mrs. Calvert was expecting her Saturday, to fix her hair, you know, the way she always does. And she didn’t come. Didn’t send word, either, which is unusual. So I just thought I would check. That she wasn’t sick. That you all were all right, you know?”

  He seemed tense, Hélène thought, as he put the question. But then she saw his hands relax on the wheel, and at once she, too, relaxed. For a moment she thought he might have heard something, some gossip. But then she dismissed that thought. Not about the drinking the other night anyway: only she and Billy knew about that, and Billy would never talk.

  “You like a little drink, Hélène Craig?”

  Hélène jumped. Again she felt that queer little prickle of nervous excitement.

  “Up at your house, you mean?”

  “No.” He slowed, and swiveled around to look at her. A long slow smile. “No. Not there. You’re not a little girl now. My wife might not understand.” He paused. “But then there’s a lot of things Mrs. Calvert doesn’t understand. About me.” He leaned across and flicked open the glove compartment, drew out a silver flask.

  “Bourbon.” He grinned. “I come ready equipped. Nothing like a good long swig of neat bourbon at the end of a long hot day. You ever try it?”

  “No.”

  “Then try it now.”

  He unscrewed the cap and handed her the flask. Hélène hesitated, then tipped it back. It felt like liquid fire in her throat. She swallowed and half-choked. Ned Calvert laughed.

  “You like it?”

  Hélène made a wry face.

  “What doesn’t Mrs. Calvert understand about you?”

  “Lots of things.” He took the flask back from her and tilted his head. She watched his tanned throat move as he drank. “I’ll tell you someday.”

  He stopped the car, pulled on the brake, lowered the flask. “You know where we are right now? See the swamp cypress right there? We’re in behind the creek—where you went swimming once upon a time.” He leaned across and pushed open her door. “Let’s stretch our legs. Be nice, don’t you think, just to sit down awhile in the shade? And I know just the place.” He’d slipped the flask into his hip pocket. As Hélène got out, he took her hand in his, casually, swinging their arms as they walked. Hot sun on their heads and then cool shade. A yellowhammer moved in the branches above them, then darted out into the light. They went through the trees, and she knew the swimming hole was down to their right. Her heart was beating very fast. Then they came out onto dry scrubby grass, and the little dark summerhouse was right in front of them. He looked over his shoulder, quickly, once, then drew her inside. There were three rough benches, built in around the sides; an open doorway, half obscured by flamecreeper. He sat down and patted the bench beside him.

  “See? It’s so quiet and cool in here. No one ever comes by. I like it here. Always did. Have some more bourbon.”

  Hélène sat down cautiously. She took the flask, tilted it, and swallowed. Ned Calvert watched her, and she saw his face through the shadows, just as she remembered it in the drawing room: still intent, watching, watching.

  “I’ve been hearing things about you, Hélène Craig.” He took the flask back from her, and slipped it between his lips, a long swallow.

  “About me?” Hélène gave a nervous laugh. “There’s not much to hear.”

  “There isn’t?” He lowered the flask again, and just looked at her. His voice was very quiet. “You’re going with that Tanner boy, works over Haines’s garage. That’s what I heard.”

  “Billy?” She turned around, startled. “Who told you that?”

  “I hear things. Never mind where. Folks talk.” He paused. “So I thought I’d give you a word of warning, that’s all. You want to stay away from that boy.”

  “From Billy?” Her blue eyes flashed. “Why so?”

  “He’s not for you. Not for any decent white girl. That’s what I’ve heard. Not for a girl who wants to keep her self-respect.”

  “I respect Billy! I like him.”

  “Sure you do. Sure you do.” He sighed. “But you’re just a little girl still. In some ways. And living the way you do, your mother being English and all, it’s maybe not so easy for you to understand. I just want for you to be careful, not to get hurt, that’s all.”

  “Hurt? By Billy?” Her chin rose. “Billy would never do anything to hurt me.”

  “Not directly, maybe. I’m sure he’s a fine boy at heart. Just misguided, that’s all. Maybe not too sharp, so he gets drawn in when he ought to draw back, means no harm—maybe you’re right. But Billy’s got some strange friends—he tell you about them? He tell you how close he’s getting with some of the other men work over Haines’s garage? Nigras?” There was a little silence. Hélène stared at him.

  “Negroes? No, Billy never told me that.”

  “You see? And why? Because he’s ashamed, that’s why. Deep down inside himself he knows it’s not right, knows there’s some roads no white man ought to cross. Folks ’round here, they won’t stand for it. They got a nasty name for a boy like Billy. Nigger-lover, they say. You ever heard that term?”

  “Of course I have!”

  “Well then, you don’t want folks
saying that about Billy. Or about you because you go with Billy. Do you?” He flicked a speck of dust off the white trousers, raised his head to look out the doorway.

  “Billy’s been seen. Talkin’ with them. Eatin’ with them. Went over to a nigra eating house with them just the other day. Sitting there, putting back chitlings and black-eyed peas and sweet potatoes, just like he couldn’t see the color of his own skin.” His voice had risen. “Folks don’t like it. Things are quiet enough now, but they never stay quiet, not anymore. There’s trouble coming. I can scent it, because I lived here all my life, and I know the smell.”

  He turned back to her, and his gaze was opaque, slightly abstracted. Hélène stared at him. She felt afraid. “You wouldn’t want Billy to get hurt, now, would you?”

  “No. I wouldn’t want that.”

  “Then you ought to warn him maybe. Tell him about the talk. Tell him to remember who he is before it gets too late.” He paused. “And then stay clear. ’Round here your mama doesn’t have too many friends—you know that?”

  “Yes, I know that.” Priscilla-Anne’s voice rang in her ears; she felt the blood begin to surge up in her cheeks. He looked at her steadily.

  “People ’round here talk about her. Mrs. Calvert and I—we pay no heed to that kind of talk. But you’re a sweet girl. You don’t want folks talking about you. Do you?”

  Hélène’s face was flushed. She hung her head. “No. I don’t want that,” she said in a small voice.

  “Here.” He held the flask out to her. “Don’t go upsetting yourself now. Have some bourbon.”

  Hélène took the flask with shaky hands. She took a long swallow. The bourbon hit the back of her throat, then flared in her stomach. She shut her eyes, and then opened them again. Her head didn’t feel too clear, and it seemed very hot in the little summerhouse, but she did feel better. And he was being very kind. It was confusing, her mother and Billy all at once, but yes, she was sure he was being kind.

  “Your lips are wet. You’ve gotten bourbon all around your mouth. Hélène Craig, I’ll have to teach you. How to drink from a flask…” As he spoke, he moved closer to her and leaned forward. His arm came around her shoulders. He lowered his face and his mouth was suddenly very close.

  “Wet,” he said. “You remember?”

  And his voice was suddenly thick, the way it had been once before. And then, very deliberately, very slowly, he put his mouth over hers. His lips were wet and firm; she felt his tongue against her lips, felt his mouth curve into a smile. He licked the bourbon from her lips, then his arm around her shoulders tightened, and he parted her lips with his tongue. Her body went rigid. She felt his tongue lap hers, gently, playfully, then more forcefully; then he began to suck, first her lips, then her tongue.

  “Open your lips—more. Yes…”

  He was sucking her tongue into his mouth, between the moist firm lips. Hélène’s head spun. Images, words, fragments; things Susie Marshall had whispered and Priscilla-Anne had confirmed. She felt her body shiver, and his hand moved up and closed over the swell of her breast. He smelled of cologne and mint and bourbon, and a little muskily of sweat; she saw his tanned skin, so close before her eyes, then she shut her eyes and gave herself up to that dark warm space in which there was nothing except his mouth and hers. He drew back. One hand continued to fondle her breast.

  “You do that with Billy Tanner? You do that with any of the boys?”

  His voice was husky, mesmeric. Hélène shook her head.

  “I thought so. You know how long I’ve wanted to do that? A long long time. You could never guess how long. And I knew it would be worth the wait.” He cradled both breasts in his hands, leaned her back so she looked up into his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you?” he said. “Right back when you were a little girl. Even then you knew. I could see it in your eyes.”

  Then he lowered his mouth to hers again, hard and strong and long, until he felt Hélène start to shake.

  “Undo your shirt, honey. Let me look.”

  He was lifting his hands to the buttons of her blouse as he spoke. Hélène tried to push them away.

  “No, please. You mustn’t. It isn’t right.”

  “I’ve seen you.” He pushed her hands aside. “Three years ago. I saw you then. Saw you in the pool. Saw you touch yourself, and then look over your shoulder like you were scared. You wanted it then, didn’t you? When you were twelve years old. You were wanting it, and thinking about it, and…sweet Jesus, let me look.”

  He pulled at the last buttons and one of them popped. Then he was wrenching the shirt off her shoulders and reaching behind for the fastening of her bra.

  “No, please. Let me go. You mustn’t…”

  He had it undone. Then his fingers were under the shoulder straps, easing it forward and off. Her breasts were full now, full and rounded and heavy, the aureole wide and dark, the skin pale. She heard him expel his breath in a long sigh. She tried to lift her hands and cover herself, but her head felt muzzy, full of shadows shot through with light, and her hands couldn’t move very fast. He caught them easily and pushed them aside, leaning forward, his lips parted and moist.

  “You’re big. Such a little slender thing, and you’re big…You’re beautiful. So beautiful. It’s been driving me crazy, thinking about you. Did you know that—how crazy you could make a man? Let me—gently—look. See how soft you are, right there?” He lifted one finger and brushed it across her nipple. Hélène cried out. “You see? It feels good. It feels nice. You don’t need to be afraid. Watch. So soft, and I can make it go all hard. Like this.”

  He bent his head. She felt his mouth, warm and wet, against her skin. He drew his tongue across her nipples, first one, then the other, his breath coming fast against her skin.

  “Feel it? You feel it…yes?” His lips circled the aureole; he sucked the hardening nipple between his lips, and Hélène felt herself arch back involuntarily as the pleasure shot through her body like a flame. He sucked harder, greedily, first one breast, then the other, the way all the other girls had told her men did, and years of dreams and images and shadowy imaginings spun and whirled in her brain. She could feel heat building up inside her like she felt when she was a little girl and she couldn’t sleep at night. And she knew it was wrong, knew she shouldn’t feel it, that she felt it more, maybe, because it was wrong.

  “You see?” He lifted his face from her breasts, his hands closing over them tight. His mouth was slack, wet with saliva from his sucking.

  “You like it? It feels good? Tell me, honey. Tell me how good it feels. You know what it does to me? Can you feel that? Look—come closer. Sit across my lap. Straddle me…” His arms tightened around her, lifted her awkwardly, slid her up and across so her legs were on either side of his thighs. His glazed eyes looked up at her; he was panting, his voice so thick he could hardly speak. “You feel it now. There…” He gave a sharp thrust with his groin. “Feel how hard I am, how big? You did that. You made me like that. Because you’re beautiful, so beautiful. You know I get hard just looking at you, not even touching? Just looking and I’m so hard I could burst my pants? Touch me. Give me your hand. Just on the outside now. There—see? There’s nothing to be afraid of. It feels good. Doesn’t it feel good?”

  He pressed her hand down, onto his groin, onto the bulge of his penis under the white linen trousers. Hélène’s head swayed against his neck; everything was black now, black and hot, and…

  “You all right, honey?” She felt his body stiffen suddenly, heard, dimly, that his voice had changed. He gripped her upper arms and shook her head. “You okay? You going to pass out or what? Jesus. Shit. Hélène…look at me now…”

  “I’m going to be sick.” Her own voice seemed to come from a long way away. Her body felt terribly cold, and her neck had gone all weak, so her head wouldn’t stay up.

  “Here. Quick. Get off of me…” He was pushing her, half-lifting her, thrusting her outside the little hut. She fell on her knees by the bushes. Then she vomited all the b
ourbon she’d drunk.

  He didn’t watch her, that was the only good thing. The minute it started happening, he turned and went back into the hut. When it was over, she just crouched there for a moment, shaking, her mind clear as crystal now, filled with words and images, and her body sick with shame. Eventually, a little unsteadily, she got back to her feet. He had come back now, and was standing in the door watching her, her bra and shirt in his hand. She couldn’t look at him. She let him take charge.

  “Better?” He sounded almost amused, his voice back to normal, and all the alarm she had heard in it gone. “Okay, now come back inside here and put these on. Then I’ll drive you home.” Inside the hut he helped her into the bra, did it up, fastened her shirt. Then he unscrewed the silver flask again. “Okay. Now, rinse your mouth out with this. Then spit. You’ll feel a whole lot better.”

  Hélène did as she was told. Then she looked up at him for the first time, and he grinned.

  “You took a swallow too much, that’s all. On an empty stomach maybe. It’s easy enough done. You feel better now?” Hélène nodded. “Now, sit down. I want you to listen. I’m not going to touch you, honey. It’s all right. There. That’s the way…” Shakily, she sat down. He stood in the shadows, looking down at her. “I didn’t know…I didn’t figure on the bourbon affecting you like that. I’d forgotten, I guess, how it can be with hard liquor the first time…”