Rhett Butler's People

by Donald McCaig

  India, wanted the book beside the family Bible in the parlor, but Melanie said no. “What if someone decides to raise a constitutional issue with Mr. Stephens? What will happen to Ashley’s party then?” Mr. Stephens’s volumes remained locked in the bookcase.

  India was an efficient worker, but she upset the negroes. When set to a task, Aunt Pittypat managed—she’d polished all the glassware, including that borrowed for the occasion—but left to her own devices, Pitty flittered from one unfinished task to another. Only Scarlett worked without instructions. Scarlett was the best negro driver, too.

  Since preparations were moving along nicely, Melanie took a cup of tea to the second-floor landing, her desk, and her interrupted letter to Rosemary.

  Melanie entirely approved of Rosemary’s decision to teach at the Female Seminary. “You have suffered a terrible grief, dear friend. The children will heal you as you instruct them.”

  She tapped the pen against her teeth, thinking.

  As for myself… when I learned I could have no more children, I assumed I would be as satisfied with the warmth that attends lovemaking as by the lovemaking itself. Ashley is an affectionate husband, but absent the—if you will permit me—”tender violence” of the act—I am blushing, dear friend—our heart passion fades year by year, unvarying season by unvarying season. Oh, I know, a decent woman shouldn’t desire her husband’s ardent embraces, but…

  ______

  Miss Melly! Miss Melly!” Scarlett’s servant Pork stomped upstairs and loomed over her like a tree poised to fall. Although Pork couldn’t read, Melly slipped her letter under the blotter. “Miss Melly! That Archie, he won’t let me hang no more lanterns in the garden. He done told me to git. I’ze skeered of that old man!”

  “Ask Scarlett what to do, Pork,” Melanie replied. “I’m sure there’s other work to do.”

  After the big negro grumbled back down the stairs, Melanie inked her pen.

  Sometimes I happen across your old Overseer’s daughter, Belle Watling. Dear Friend, I have only known my Ashley, whose touches were so lavish, his pleasure giving so much keener than his pleasure taking. I have fancied asking Belle (but of course could not), “How is it to have had so many men? Are all men the same?”

  Oh, Rosemary, it has been eight years—eight long years—since Dr. Meade told Ashley I must not bear another child. I know I should put my desires aside—but I cannot. Sometimes, Ashley does or says something; sometimes he catches the light in a certain way and I positively burn for my husband’s embraces! Dear Friend, he is so beautiful! There are contrivances which would permit intimacies without the consequences we fear, but Ashley, dear Ashley, is too proper, and on the single occasion I dared to mention them, Ashley turned red as one of Pitty’s azaleas and he stuttered

  (Ashley never stutters), saying, “Gentlemen do not employ such devices!” I’m sure Belle knows about them and would tell me if I dared to ask.

  Scarlett peeked through the banisters at Melanie’s ankles and said, “Melly, Pork is perfectly capable of hanging a few Japanese lanterns. Archie gave Pork one of his ‘looks’ and Pork will be quaking all afternoon. Why do you let that smelly old hillbilly in your house?”

  “Archie is so good with the children,” Melanie replied.

  In the past, Archie had been given to mysterious disappearances and everybody knew he was in the Klan. But he was wonderful with the children.

  After Governor Bullock fled, Scarlett stopped entertaining, and her Peachtree Street mansion became a mausoleum. The Butler children spent more time in the Wilkeses’ home than their own. Sour, one-legged old Archie Flytte entertained them for hours.

  “If Peter is done polishing the floors, Pork and he can lay the summer matting,” Melanie said.

  “Humph.” Scarlett’s head disappeared. Melanie Wilkes tapped her pen against her teeth.

  Dear Rosemary, I am loath to add to your burdens but must tell you that last Saturday, over luncheon at the Kimball House, Scarlett and Rhett lit into each other like cats and dogs. I heard about their quarrel from three different sources! Their only real bond is their shared love for little Bonnie—”Bonnie Blue.” Your niece is a sunbeam who lights everywhere she goes. Mrs. Meade makes Bonnie her special pecan fudge and Mrs. Elsing sets the dear little thing on her lap and tells her how things were when she was a girl. Those who once deprecated your brother have taken him into their hearts. Not their least reason is the love Rhett lavishes on his daughter.

  All she needs say is, “Daddy, pick me up!” Rhett picks her up, and when she tugs at his mustache or hair or when she is fretful, as all children sometimes are, Rhett never loses patience with his Bonnie Blue.

  Scarlett was peeking through the banisters again, “Melanie, who are you writing to?”

  “I am writing Rosemary. Two tired housewives complaining about their children. Sometimes, dear Scarlett”—Melanie slipped the letter into the drawer and turned the key—“I wish I had your gift for being in the world. I wish I had your will!”

  “If will was as powerful as it’s supposed to be, Melly, we’d presently be Confederate citizens. I’m going to Ashley’s sawmill to see Hugh Elsing.”

  Melanie clapped her hands. “That’s perfect. That’s absolutely perfect. Could you possibly keep Ashley there until five? If Ashley comes home earlier, he’ll catch us finishing up a cake or something and his surprise will be ruined.”

  Hastily, Melanie concluded her letter.

  Dear Rosemary, jealousy is so corrosive that I’d almost rather be betrayed than live in fear of betrayal!

  If I could not put my trust in Ashley, if I did not believe he loves me, I would go mad.

  I knew from childhood that Ashley and I were intended for each other. We are cousins, and “the Wilkeses always marry cousins.” We were spared the tribulations of courtship—does he or doesn’t he love me; do I or don’t I truly care for him? I knew I was to marry Ashley and I loved him. Not love Ashley? I cannot imagine it!

  Yet, sometimes, I wonder how it might have been. … Are Scarlett’s passions richer and more profound than mine, or have I read too many novels?

  Must love always be such a puzzle?

  Melanie signed and sealed the letter. Downstairs, Pork and Uncle Peter were arguing how the summer floor mats should be laid. Melanie could smell furniture polish and baking pies.

  How grateful she was! During the War, she’d been so afraid for Ashley. One alert sharpshooter, one of the myriad illnesses that killed soldiers weakened by hunger and privation—there were so many ways she might have lost her precious husband. Melanie Hamilton Wilkes bowed her head and gave thanks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Desire

  Desire too long denied makes the heart sick. Sun pouring through the windows illuminated order books and a calendar whose dates were crossed off with X’s. Sawmill dust furred windowsills, shelves, Ashley Wilkes’s rolltop desk, and his hat.

  That hat was their mute chaperone.

  A man and a woman alone together, after so many years.

  Scarlett notices the gray in Ashley’s hair and thinks, He will never be young again, and the thought makes her want to cry for him and for herself.

  Scarlett has not been with a man since Bonnie Blue was conceived. Ashley has not been with a woman for eight years.

  It is Saturday afternoon. The whining saws are shut down and oiled for the Sabbath; there’s no lumber crashing onto ricks, no foreman shouting orders. The mill hands have been paid and gone home. Dust motes dance in the sunlight.

  “The days are getting longer,” Ashley says.

  Scarlett says, “Yes, yes, they are.”

  A spring fly, one of the fat, lazy flies that appear as seasons change, bats against the window glass, trying to reach the outdoors. It will die, as so many of God’s creatures do, without ever fulfilling its desire.

  Scarlett O’Hara is thinking how sad life is, how unutterably sad, as she steps into the embrace she has wanted for so long.

  Ashley
and Scarlett fit perfectly in each other’s arms.

  The office door bangs open. India Wilkes, Archie Flytte, and Mrs. Elsing are in the doorway. Gaping.

  Scarlett is lost.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  She

  The cuckold Rhett Butler rode Atlanta’s dark streets. He galloped his horse down Decatur until it was a country road, before wheeling back into the city.

  When his great black horse slowed, Rhett used his spurs savagely. “Damn you, behave! You will behave!”

  He could not trust himself. That was his worst realization—knowing he could not trust himself. Four years. For four years he’d slept alone while she mooned after Ashley Wilkes.

  Earlier tonight, he’d forced her to attend Melanie’s party. Thinking what? That Melly would denounce the adulterous pair? What a comedy! Ashley and Melanie playacting the happily married couple. Melanie welcoming Scarlett as a sister while vicious whispers took wings behind ladies’ fans.

  The cuckold Rhett Butler. Oh no, she hadn’t given her body to Ashley. Just her goddamned, yearning, hopeful, scheming soul.

  He emptied his flask. He emptied a second. He galloped by Chapeau Rouge without seeing. MacBeth, who’d raised a hand in greeting, let it fall to his side.

  He couldn’t go near his wife until he could trust himself. His wife! He couldn’t go home until Scarlett was safe behind her locked bedroom door. “Home.” Rhett spat the epithet between his horse’s hooves.

  When he came into the parlor, she was there. She was sneaking a glass of brandy. She paled when she saw him.

  His resolutions vanished like smoke. His hands ached with the need to hurt her. He would have killed her on the spot. Killing would cure her of yearning for Ashley.

  “You drunken fool. Take your hands off me.”

  “I’ve always admired your spirit, my dear. Never more than now, when you are cornered.”

  “You can’t understand Ashley or me. You are jealous of something you can’t understand.” Regal as a queen, she tossed her head and straightened her wrap, rising to go.

  He caught her. He pressed her shoulders against the wall.

  “Jealous, am I? And why not? Oh yes, I’m jealous of Ashley Wilkes. I know Ashley Wilkes and his breed. I know he is honorable and a gentleman. And that, my dear, is more than I can say for you—or for me, for that matter. We are not gentlemen and we have no honor, have we? That’s why we flourish like green bay trees.”

  When he turned to the decanter, she bolted.

  Rhett caught her at the bottom of the stairs. His hands slipped under her dressing gown onto her sleek skin. He whispered hoarsely, “You turned me out on the town while you chased him. By God, this is going to be one night when there are only two in my bed!”

  Rhett scooped and carried her up the broad staircase of the great house he’d built for his bride. She trembled in his arms, mesmerized by his rage. On the landing, when she took breath to scream, he stopped her mouth with his own. She was his creature; he had nurtured her and taught her and devoted himself to her. She was his and he would use her as he saw fit.

  He carried her into the darkness at the head of the stairs, his mouth pressed to hers, their breath intermingling.

  In her bed, in her dark room, she opened to him like a flower and he crushed that flower for its loveliness. Even when she let her love roll down, even that couldn’t quench his hunger.

  Hours later, Rhett rose from the bed where Scarlett slept, exhausted. He didn’t know who had been the victor, who the victim. He pressed his aching head between his hands. His eyes were sore, his lips were sore, his tongue was swollen, his body was sticky with his sweat and hers. He smelled like the woman he had violated.

  “My God,” Rhett Butler whispered, “I am just like my father.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Eugenie Victoria Butler

  When Bonnie Blue’s parents were fighting—which they did an awful lot—the house swelled up with anger, until Bonnie put her hands over her ears so she wouldn’t hear it pop. Yesterday had been ’specially bad. The grown-ups were going to a party at Aunt Melly’s house, so Bonnie thought everybody would be happy, but that afternoon Big Sam came ‘round to the back, and when Mammy heard what Big Sam had to say, she put on her sorrowful face, and pretty soon all the servants had sorrowful faces and they wouldn’t tell Bonnie, but she knew it was something bad.

  Her Mother came home and hid in her bedroom, but when Daddy Rhett came home, he made her go to Aunt Melly’s party. Bonnie knew Mother didn’t want to go to the party, but Daddy Rhett made her go.

  That night, Bonnie couldn’t sleep, and when she heard loud voices downstairs, she opened her door just a crack and she saw Daddy Rhett carrying Mother up the stairs just like she was a baby. They were kissing, so maybe they’d made up and weren’t going to fight anymore.

  Next day, Mother didn’t come down until almost suppertime and she was happy as a cat with fresh cream, but Daddy Rhett was gone. When Bonnie asked when he’d be home, Mother smiled mysteriously and said, “When he’s done feeling guilty, sweetheart.” That evening, Mother went around humming, and after dinner she brought out the stereograph, and Wade and Ella and Bonnie Blue sat with her on the sofa, taking turns looking at pictures of a big river in China, and Chinamen wearing hats like upside-down bowls.

  Mother expected Daddy Rhett to come home, but he didn’t. Not that day nor the day after nor the day after that. Mother stopped humming and was short with everybody, and when Wade suggested they take out the stereograph and look at pictures, she snapped at him.

  When Daddy Rhett did come home, they fought again—worse than ever!—and Daddy got so mad at her Mother, he threw his cigar down on the parlor carpet, which stunk up the whole house!

  Later, Mammy pretended to be cheerful as she packed Bonnie’s clothes, saying Bonnie was going away with Daddy Rhett for a while, but Mammy’s old sad eyes knew better.

  “Mammy,” Bonnie asked, “what’s a divorce?”

  “No such a thing! They ain’t doin’ no such a thing!” When Mammy sighed, all of her sighed, not just her mouth. “They just considerin’, that’s all.”

  Belle Watling was waiting at the railway station.

  When Bonnie was introduced to Belle—whose name Bonnie had heard a lot when Mother was angry—

  Bonnie drew herself up and asked, “Are you really a fallen woman?”

  Belle’s smile dimmed and then brightened again. “Well, honey, I reckon I am.”

  “Where’d you fall from?” the child asked.

  “Not too high, honey. I reckon where I fell from wasn’t too high.” Belle took Bonnie’s hand to help the child into their Pullman car.

  Bonnie was delighted by the Pullman. She couldn’t get over how couches became beds, and she made the porter transform them three times before she was satisfied.

  Bonnie knew her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, and when she saw pictures of queens in storybooks, she knew they were just like Mother. Daddy Rhett was the kindest, smartest, funniest man, and the best horseman, too. Why, his black stallion was almost as fast as her pony!

  Bonnie knew they loved her and she knew they loved each other, too. So why couldn’t they just say so and not fight anymore?

  But that was before and this was now, and Bonnie raced up and down the Pullman car with Prissy chasing her. “Watch out for that table! Don’t go out that door! We coming to a tunnel! Cover you eyes!”

  The world flashed by the windows. Plowmen were turning the earth in glistening red furrows. In towns, people got on the train or got off the train and stood on the platform, greeting and gossiping, and luggage carts trundled and the bell clanged and the conductor shouted “All ’board!” and swung on the train. Bonnie wondered if he ever got left behind.

  Sitting in Belle Watling’s lap, Bonnie asked about water lilies in the swamp they were crossing and a blackened plantation house on a hill. “Are there ghosts?” Bonnie asked.

  “Yes, honey, there are. But
they won’t hurt you.”

  When they sat down for dinner, Daddy Rhett complimented Belle on her gown and she blushed. “Miss Smithers helps me pretend I’m a lady.”

  Bonnie’s father’s smile was so sad. “Belle, dear Belle. You know we can’t choose our heart’s desire.”

  “You think I don’t know that, Captain Smarty?” Belle retorted. “You think I don’t know a thing or two about desires?”

  He laughed then, his old laugh, and Bonnie’s pealing laughter harmonized and Belle’s mock-stern expression dissolved into giggles.

  The next morning, Bonnie stood on the seat as their train rumbled into Charleston. When her father offered his hand to guide her through the big brick depot, Bonnie preferred to walk by herself, thank you, but she let him lift her into the cab.

  Bonnie was glad to see her cousin Louis Valentine again. While her father and her aunt Rosemary talked about the things grown-ups talk about, Belle and Prissy took Bonnie and Louis Valentine to the promenade to see the boats. Prissy chattered with Belle just like Belle wasn’t a fallen woman.

  Bonnie wanted to stay longer in Charleston, but her father said they couldn’t. Bonnie pouted until they were back in their dear familiar Pullman car. She ate her dinner and climbed into her little bed. Since Bonnie was afraid of the dark, her father left a light burning where she could see it through the bed curtains.

  Bonnie woke to cypress swamps that gave way to shacks and shanties, then more substantial buildings, and then their track joined another as they sped past old stone houses Daddy Rhett called “the Vieux Carré. It’s the old French Quarter, Bonnie.” Their train rolled along the levees above the wharves and the ships in the big river. Bonnie was fascinated by the steamboats and she begged until Daddy Rhett gave his laughing promise that yes, yes, they would take a steamboat ride. Because as Bonnie Blue asserted, “I had to leave my pony behind and I miss him very much, but I shan’t miss him so much when I’m taking a steamboat ride.”