"Turn around," she ordered. I did so and she gazed at my breasts. "You're not normally this big?"
"No, madame," I said. "And the color has changed here," I said, pointing to my nipples. "Darkened."
"Oh?" She studied me with interest. "I'll have to stuff my bra a bit," she mused, and nodded. "Once a week I'll take the measurement of your stomach and adjust my own dimensions accordingly. You can get dressed now," she said.
She waited as I dressed myself and then in a kinder tone of voice she said, "I'll bring you some Charles Dickens with some dinner tonight. The maids are about to begin upstairs and will be working right beneath you, so keep as quiet as possible when you clean. I hope," she added, "that if you do vomit, you do it as silently as possible." She took my tray. At the doorway she turned back to me. "I'll be sending for your mother very soon, perhaps later today."
"Thank you, madame," I said. I couldn't wait to see Mama. Even though I had been here only one night, I missed her terribly.
Gladys Tate closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed down the stairway. I stood there for a moment, realizing that I was trembling, and then I set about cleaning the room and keeping my mind occupied so I wouldn't dwell on this strange, hard woman who would someday soon be the mother of the child I carried.
Gladys Tate brought Mama up to see me after dinner. One look at Mama's face when she came up the stairway and stepped into the room told me she was infuriated.
"You're keeping her up here, in this . . . closet?" she said, turning sharply on Gladys.
"It's the only secluded place in the house," Gladys said, unflinching. 'Tin trying to make her as comfortable as possible."
Mama gazed about the room and then fixed her eyes on my empty dishes. Of course, I wasn't sure if it had been done for Mama's benefit more than my own, but Gladys had brought me a gourmet feast: a bowl of turtle soup, Cornish hen in a grape cognac sauce, sweet potatoes in oranges, and tangy green beans. For dessert, there was a slice of pecan pie. Gladys proudly ticked off the menu, explaining I would always eat what they ate.
Mama's eyebrows rose with skepticism.
"I wish to speak with my daughter alone," she said. Gladys tightened, her mouth becoming a tiny slice in her taut cheeks. She then gave Mama a small smile, tight and cold.
"Of course," she said, and pivoted sharply. She closed the door behind her and descended, her feet barely tapping down the stairway.
"You can't stay here," Mama began immediately. "This is horrible. I had to sneak up here with her, like some kind of swamp rat."
"It's not so bad, Mama. I'll keep busy and the time will pass quickly."
"I don't like it," she insisted. "You're too much a creature of Nature, Gabrielle. You can't be shut up like this."
"I'll manage, Mama. Please. What will be the alternative? These are rich and important people here. They will make me look like the bad one, and the baby, the baby will grow up an outcast. Besides," I said with a smile, "I bet Daddy's already spent some of the money."
"Some? I'll wager he's spent most of it or gambled it away by now." She sighed deeply and sat on the bed. "Look how tiny everything is. What was this room?"
"Her playroom."
"Playroom? What does she think, this is another childish game, you're another toy, a distraction? That woman irks me, Gabrielle. Something's very wrong with her. She wants me to bring her herbs."
"I know. She's determined everyone will believe the baby is hers. She's really getting into the pretending."
"Too much. I was alone with her and she was telling me she's had nausea in the morning and lately she's had to go to the bathroom more often. Why tell me those things without anyone around?" Mama pointed out.
I shrugged. "Maybe she was just practicing."
"I don't know. I'm not getting good vibrations here," Mama said, gazing around with that special vision. "This was not a happy room. It wasn't a playroom so much as it was . . . a hideaway," she concluded. "And that's what she's made it into now," she added, turning to me.
"If it gets unbearable, Mama, I'll come home," I promised.
Mama squinted and curled the corner of her mouth. "You have a lot more tolerance for abuse than most people, Gabrielle, and you're too forgiving. I'm afraid you won't do what's in your own best interests. You'll think of everyone else first."
"No, Mama, I promise. . . ."
She shook her head and then her face reddened a bit with anger.
"Has he come around? Do you see him?"
"No, Mama. I haven't seen Octavious Tate once since I arrived. I think he's afraid of her," I offered.
Mama nodded. "That's what your father says. He's not much of a man to live under his wife's shadow and to have done what he did to you. I want you to know I was tempted to turn your father loose on him. When he drove off with that in mind, I wasn't eager to stop him. I was just as angry, but . . ." She sighed. "Maybe having a good home for the baby and keeping you from the disgrace that some would lay on you no matter what, like you say, is for the best. I just don't like the thought of you being caged up."
"I'll get out as much as possible, Mama. And you'll be by to see me now and then."
"You can bet on that," she said. She dug into her split-oak basket and took out some more herbal medicines, a jar of homemade blackberry jam, a loaf of cinnamon bread, and a package of pralines. "Don't eat all this at one time," she warned. "You gotta watch you don't get too fat, Gabrielle."
"I won't, Mama," I said, and laughed.
She sighed again and stood up. We heard Gladys coming up the stairway. She knocked on the door, which was something I was sure she would never have done if Mama weren't there.
"Yes," Mama said.
Gladys entered. "I'm sorry, but if you remain up here much longer, my maids will notice."
"You should get maids you can trust," Mama shot back. Gladys didn't respond, but she made her eyes small and sucked in her breath. "I'll be by in a couple of days," Mama said. Then she turned to Gladys. "You see she gets time out of this room. She needs exercise or the birthing will be difficult, even dangerous."
"Of course, Madame Landry. I will permit whatever is possible."
"Make it possible," Mama insisted. "See that she has plenty of water to drink, too. There's two to take care of here. Keep that in mind."
"Anything else?" Gladys asked with visible annoyance.
"Yes. You should have a fan up here."
"Why? You don't have fans in your shack, do you?"
"No, but she's not locked up in a room in our shack," Mama retorted.
"There's no electricity up here, and even if there were, the noise would attract attention," Gladys explained.
"It's all right, Mama. Really," I said.
"Humph," Mama said, and then turned back to Gladys. "You make sure your husband doesn't come within ten feet of her."
Gladys turned so red, I thought the blood would shoot up and out the top of her head.
"Don't bother to make promises," Mama followed before Gladys could open her tight mouth. "Just make sure it don't happen." Mama turned to me. "I'll see you soon, honey," she said, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she glared at Gladys once more before she started out. Gladys took my tray of empty dishes and shot me an annoyed look before leaving. When they got to the bottom of the stairway and went out the corridor door, Gladys did not lock it. I was glad of that.
After Mama left, I relaxed on my bed and read some of the Charles Dickens novel Gladys Tate had brought me. Since the sun had gone down behind the trees, I was able to pull up the shade and permit more air to come into the room. The sound of a flapping bird's wings interrupted my reading and I went to the window to look out on the night heron. She did a little dance on the railing and turned to peer back at me.
"Hello," I said. "Shopping for dinner or just out for a stroll?"
She lifted her wings as if to reply and then the muscles in her neck undulated as she dipped her beak before rising to swoop down and toward the forest and ponds where
she would hunt for her dinner. Never did I wish I had the power of flight so much as I did at the moment. If I had it, I would fly alongside the heron and glide over the swamp before lifting myself higher and higher toward the glittering promise of stars.
The sound of the door being opened below and footsteps on the stairs startled me. I turned from the window to greet Gladys Tate.
"You can bring your chamber pot down now and take a bath, if you like. My maids have gone to bed. Empty that pail of dirty water and get some more to do some more cleaning tomorrow," she instructed. "Don't forget to fetch water for yourself and our baby," she added. "When you get to the bottom of the stairs, it's the first door on the right. Towels and soap and everything else you need is there."
"Tres bien, madame," I said. "Thank you."
"I hope," she said, "you told your mother I'm doing all I can to make the best of a horrible situation. It's not easy for me either. She should understand that when she comes here," she whined.
"I don't have to tell Mama anything, madame. She has the power to see the truth. She always knows what's truly in a person's heart. That's her gift."
"Ridiculous folklore. No one has that power, but I asked around and people say your mother is the best midwife in the bayou," she admitted. "I was told she's never lost a baby in birthing, except for those already dead." She smiled. "Everyone thinks it's a good idea to have her look after me."
She stared at me a moment and then she brought her hands to her breasts as if she had just experienced the sort of tenderness I had described I experienced.
"It bothers you when you sleep on your stomach sometimes, doesn't it?" she asked.
"Oui, madame."
"Then it will bother me, too," she vowed. "Don't go anywhere else in the house. My butler is still wandering about," she warned, and descended.
A moment later, I took the chamber pot and followed. The bathroom was almost as big as the room I now lived in upstairs. It had pink and white wallpaper with a fluffy blue throw rug beside the bathtub. All of the fixtures were brass. The vanity table had bath powders, soaps, and colognes. I emptied the chamber pot and then closed the door and began to fill the tub with warm water. I found some bubble bath and put some in as the water filled the tub. Then I undressed and soaked for nearly twenty minutes. It was really rather delightful and something I couldn't do at home. I made a mental note to tell Mama so she would be less anxious about my staying here.
The towels were big, soft ones. After I washed my hair, I scrubbed it dry with one and then wrapped a towel around myself as I sat at the vanity and brushed out my long strands. Staring at myself in the mirror, I thought I detected more chubbiness in my cheeks and remembered Mama's warning about getting too fat. I indulged myself by spraying on some of the cologne and then I put on my dress and, after cleaning up the bathroom, carried my chamber pot back upstairs. I returned to fill my water jug and get a clean pail of water for the cleaning I would do.
As I was leaving the bathroom again, I heard a horrible sound. It resembled someone retching. I stood completely still and listened. It was definitely someone retching and it was coming from the first doorway down left. My curiosity was more powerful than Gladys Tate's warning not to wander. I tiptoed along, keeping close to the wall. When I reached the doorway, I inched my head around to peer into what I remembered from the model house was the master bedroom. I could see clearly through the room and into the bathroom because the bathroom door was open. Octavious was nowhere, but Gladys Tate was on her hands and knees, hovering over the toilet, vomiting.
I snapped my head back, an electric chill shooting up my spine.
Was she vomiting because of something she had eaten that was too rich or not good or . . .
No, I told myself. That's too far-fetched. She couldn't imagine it and then actually have it happen, could she? My jug of water tapped the wall.
"Octavious?" I heard her call. "Is that you?"
I didn't move.
"Octavious? Damn you, I'm sick."
I waited, my heart pounding. Then I heard her retch again and I quickly retreated to the doorway and ascended the stairs, taking care not to spill any of the water out of the pail.
I closed the door behind me and stood there, catching my breath and wondering if I had made the right decision after all. These people were rich, Gladys Tate's family was one of the most famous and respected families in the bayou. Their factory gave many people employment, and everyone, from the priest to the politicians, showed them respect. But there were shadows and memories looming in the corners and the closets of this house. I wondered if I could stay here and not be touched by the sadness and evil that I suspected had once strolled freely through the corridors and rooms. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, it was all still very much here.
Sleep did not come easy the second night. I flitted in and out of nightmares and tossed and turned, waking often and listening to the creaks in the wood. Sometimes I thought I heard the sound of someone sobbing. I listened hard and it would drift away and I would fall back asleep. Shortly before daybreak, I was awake again and this time heard the soft sound of someone tiptoeing up the stairway. The door opened slowly, and for a moment, no one was there. My heart stopped. Was it a ghost? The spirit of one of Gladys Tate's angry ancestors, enraged by my presence in the house?
Then a dark figure appeared and made its way across the room to the window shade. I pretended to be asleep, but kept my right eye slightly open. It was Gladys Tate. She pulled down the shade, waited a moment, and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly. I could barely hear her descend the stairs. She had moved like a sleepwalker, floating. It filled me with amazement. It did no good to close my eyes. I remained awake and saw the first weak rays of sunlight penetrate the shade and vaguely light the room to tell me morning, the beautiful bayou daybreak, had come. Only I would not be outside to greet it as I had all my life.
The next few days passed uneventfully. I cleaned and scrubbed the room until I believed it looked as immaculate as a room in a hospital, the old wood shining, the window so clear it looked open when it was closed. I took everything off the shelves and out of the closet, dusted and organized it, and then I dusted and polished all the small furniture.
Despite herself, Gladys Tate was impressed and commented that she was happy I was taking good care of my quarters.
I was lonely, of course, and missed Mama terribly, as well as the world outside; but every night, without fail, my night heron paid me a visit and strutted up and down the railing a little longer each time as I spoke to him through the window. I told him to tell all my animal friends in the swamp that I had not deserted them and I would be back before long. I imagined the heron visiting with nutrias and deer, snakes and turtles, and especially blue jays, who were the biggest gossips I knew, giving them all the news. At night the cicadas were louder than ever, letting me know that all of Nature was happy I was all right and would return. It was all silly pretending, I know; but it kept me content.
On my first Thursday morning after my arrival at The Shadows, Gladys Tate announced that I would enjoy my first meal downstairs in the dining room and then be able to wander about freely. I decided to wear the nicest of my three dresses, not to impress and please her but to please myself. I brushed down my hair and pinned it and then waited as the time drew near for her to call up to me. I heard the downstairs door open, followed by her declaration.
"It's all right for you to come down, Gabrielle."
I appeared instantly. "Thank you, madame," I said, and descended.
She gazed at me and then smiled coldly. "Octavious will not be joining us," she said. "There was no need to make any extra preparations. I made a promise to your mother that you would not see Octavious, and I mean to keep that promise."
"I made very little preparation. I have no desire to see him, Madame Tate. In fact, I'm rather relieved he won't be there," I added. She raised her eyebrows, but looked at me skeptically before we went down the stairs to the di
ning room where our dinner of whole poached red snapper had been laid out. Although I thought the table was rather fancy, Gladys Tate made it perfectly clear at the start that it was dressed nothing like it was when she had significant guests.
However, the fish itself was covered thickly with sauce and decorated with parsley to cover the separation marks at the head and tail. Radishes had been placed in the eyes and a row of overlapping slices of lemon and hard-boiled egg was down the center. The platter was garnished with lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, pimentos, and stuffed eggs. If this was an ordinary meal, I wondered what an elaborate one looked like.
She told me to sit at the opposite end of the table so we faced each other. The chandelier had been turned down and two candles were burning. Shadows danced on the walls and had a strange and eerie effect on the faces of the people painted in the scenes of sugar plantations and soybean fields that hung on the adjacent walls. The sad or troubled faces of the laborers looked like smiles, and the smiles on the rich landowners looked sinister. The far wall was all mirror so that I was looking at Gladys Tate's back and myself, only in the mirror, I seemed miles away.
"You may pour us each some iced tea," she said, and I rose to do so. The crystal goblets sparkled and the silverware felt heavy. The dishware had a flower print.
"This is a beautiful table setting," I remarked.
"It's our everyday tableware. But it has been in the family a very long time," she admitted. "I suppose you're used to eating off a plank table with tin forks and spoons."
"No, madame. We have plates, too. Not as elegant as these, of course, but we do have dishes."
She made a small grunting noise and took some of the red snapper. "Help yourself," she said.
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