Stillwater

by Nicole Helget

  “What are you doing?”

  Angel opened her eyes and closed her mouth.

  “I said, what are you doing?” her mother repeated. She was descending the stairs in her nightdress, something she never did. “Get away from there.” She ran to Angel’s side and pulled her arm. “Don’t even think it.”

  Angel nodded.

  “It’s a dirty, filthy thing you’re imagining.”

  Angel nodded again. There was nothing else to do when her mother got angry like this. Her mother pulled her to her feet and walked her to the kitchen. She prepared a tea.

  “Don’t you ever think about how I sat with you and nursed you back to health all your life? Does that ever cross your mind?” asked her mother. “Or how I’ve kept you away from the riffraff who could ruin your life? Do you ever thank me for that?”

  Angel nodded.

  “I got so little sleep! I sat up with you night after night, rocking and humming and feeding. And you’re ready to throw all we’ve done for you away on an orphan or a nigger. Shame on you, Angel.” She stirred the tea and handed it to Angel. “Do you know what would happen if word got out that you were born in a dirty hut to a woman who abandoned you? Do you know how slim your prospects would be? Do you think you’d be wearing dresses of silk or living in a house like this? You better wise up. You better not ruin our chances at a good match. You better not embarrass me.”

  Angel watched her mother’s hands shake, rattling the cup and saucer.

  “Your father and I have arranged a marriage for you. A good one. And don’t even think about declining the offer. Thomas Lawrence. Do you know how many women in Stillwater will die of envy?”

  “I like him,” Angel whispered. “Davis.”

  Her mother corrected her. “You like him for now. A girl’s heart has the freedom to be fickle until she marries. Like him. Fine. But that’s it.” She huffed and put a hand to her breast. “You think I didn’t have other suitors? Of course I did. But once I married, I became completely devoted to your father. That’s what wives do. Husbands above all else.”

  Her mother handed her the tea. Angel smelled it. There was the old odor. Tears boiled her eyes. Her hands shook.

  “But Father likes Davis,” Angel said. “He does. And you said yourself he supports emancipation. I heard you.”

  “Because it’s convenient, Angel, you stupid girl. Because he thinks that emancipation is a position that will secure him an elected or appointed position.” She laughed. “What your beloved father really supports is colonization, like the British. The only reason he doesn’t want slavery here is because it appears uncivilized.” She waved her hand. “He supports it everywhere but here.”

  Angel’s heart beat fast. She felt her face flush.

  “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” her mother went on. “It’s a game, girl. To play silly.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Angel. “I don’t believe it. It’s not true. Father likes Davis.” Then she couldn’t talk. She was crying.

  “Take a drink and calm yourself,” her mother commanded. “I’ve already ordered a new gown, and your father has begun construction on a mansion as your wedding gift.”

  Angel sipped. Her mother’s voice went on and on but seemed to be receding. She drank some more. She didn’t care. The ones she loved were always taken away from her. She tipped back the cup until the last drop touched her tongue. “There, you crazy witch,” she said to her mother. She grew dizzy and lightheaded.

  Her mother smiled, unfazed by the insult. “You go on upstairs and climb back into bed.”

  Angel did as she was told. In her bed, she lay back on her pillow and felt the room spin. She drummed her fingers on her blanket and waited. Then she heard a faraway but familiar voice. He was saying prayers, a rosary.

  Nausea swept over her. She gagged over the side of her bed. She heard him saying, Holy Mary, Mother of God—

  “Aren’t you a good boy,” Angel mocked. She panted and drooled onto her pillow. Her stomach clenched up like a bear trap. “Oh God.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “It’s only me. It’s your Angel.”

  Angel? I knew you hadn’t forgotten me. I love you, Angel. I love you very much. Say you love me too. I want to hear you say it.

  Then her mother came in.

  “You’re not going anywhere until your marriage,” she said. “And you’re not to see that orphan or that nigger ever again. If you do, I’ll make sure they suffer for it. And you. You’ll regret it, I swear.”

  When Angel was better, she couldn’t remember if the memory of talking with Clement was real, nor could she recall exactly what her mother had said. But the words of her nanny did come back to her: go forward or die.

  40

  The Voyeurs

  AFTER THAT TIME when she’d interrupted his prayers, Angel had not returned to Clement. He’d been impatiently expectant for nights on end. He paced and wouldn’t sleep for fear he’d miss her. Then from Mother St. John he’d heard that Angel was getting married, and he fell into a deep melancholia. On the day of his sister’s wedding, Clement sat among the tree stumps near Stillwater, which had once hovered over the town in protective canopy. He sobbed like a child and gazed up into the sky, asking God why. The sun beat on him, and his skin reddened and burned. Because of this, he’d be peeling skin like a snake. For this pain he blamed Thomas Lawrence.

  A reckless timber man, Thomas Lawrence owned nearly every acre around this town, and he had razed nearly every tree standing more than a man tall. The stump Clement sat upon was one of thousands still wet with the sap and moisture that had fed the towering forest. Clement mourned the trees. He mourned the displaced hawks and owls, eagles and woodpeckers. The river, once a living body of movement and laughter, now sat clogged with Lawrence’s logs, waiting for their turn at the sawmills. The whole town stank of sawdust and rotting wood and charred timber. The only trees left were the birches around the Hatterby house and leading to the river behind them, the small grove around Lawrence’s new mansion, and the dense woods across the river from his place, a haven of untouched trees for Lawrence to enjoy as he sipped his morning coffee on his balcony.

  The wooded paths where Clement used to stroll were now strewn with cushions of shredded bark and squirrel backbones and bird wings, victims of the harried clearing. Clement sometimes came upon deer standing lonely among the stumps, looking at him as though confused. Once he stumbled over the skull of a horse, worked to death and left to decompose rather than properly burned or buried. And Clement had heard of men run over by the towering sleighs of logs and knew of a boy who’d broken his neck falling from a treetop he’d been sent to hack. The boy survived and now lay in a bed in his mother’s house day and night. Clement knew this because he’d seen him with his own eyes. Mother St. John and Big Waters had heard of the woman’s plight and sent Clement to her weekly, with foodstuffs and laundry for the woman to wash and press. She was a German and prideful. She would not take the food for free, would only exchange it for labor. Where her man was, no one knew. She was alone out there with a houseful of children, the oldest paralyzed, with no word of apology or offer of care from Thomas Lawrence.

  Most men in Stillwater were beholden to Lawrence, in one way or another, for their livelihood. And Lawrence was literally burdened by the weight of his wealth. Clement had seen him drop a coin on the dirt street and not bother to pick it up. He could have any woman he wanted. Why Angel?

  Thomas Lawrence used things up and then discarded them. Now he was marrying Clement’s sister. Clement could hardly stomach it. All morning, he’d felt sick in his gut. When Big Waters tried to rouse him from his bed, he’d snapped at her to leave him alone. She’d brought him a plate of bread and ground cherry jelly, his favorite, and he’d slapped it off his bed and onto the floor. Uncomplaining, she cleaned it up. When he saw the old, withering woman on the floor, using a thin knife to scrape up the jelly, he’d risen.

  “I’m sorry
, Big Waters,” he’d said. “That was foolish of me.” He’d put his hand on her knotty back and bid her to sit on his bed. Then he’d taken the knife from her and scraped up the rest of the mess. He carefully gouged the jam out of the crevices between the boards, knowing what a stickler Big Waters was for clean floors.

  “I can’t figure out why she’d marry such a fool,” Clement had said. He liked talking to Big Waters. She rarely said a word, but she seemed to be a good listener. When he had finished, he kissed her cheek and said he was going for a walk. Big Waters patted his thigh and then let him go. Clement considered leaning against her and having his cry there, but he was a grown man now and couldn’t do such things anymore. He trusted Big Waters and knew she’d never scold or scoff at such a sign of tenderness, but even in her eyes Clement wanted to be considered a man.

  Mother St. John had been nagging him for more than a year about finding his calling. He knew it was time to move on from the care of the women, but he didn’t know what to do or where to go. He moped and blamed his long-lost mother. If she had stayed and raised him and Angel up the way she was supposed to, with a husband in a house, then Clement would have learned a trade from his father or grandfather, like other boys. Maybe he’d have inherited a business. Maybe some money. Maybe he would have found a nice girl to love, and maybe he’d be getting married too. But none of that was happening, and it was all her fault. Thinking about being abandoned by his mother and the expectations of Mother St. John and Big Waters drove Clement to tears. Thinking about Angel marrying Thomas Lawrence caused him to heave and cry hard.

  After his wailing in the woods, Clement composed himself and thought to witness this union for himself. He wondered if Angel would perhaps come to her senses and not marry Lawrence. He wondered if he’d be able to see her face, to ascertain if she was marrying him for love or for money. Perhaps she was reluctantly following the will of her parents. This seemed likely to Clement, but he was impatient of her sense of daughterly duty. Angel was not a natural child and should not be bound to the rules that apply to natural ones. Her natural place was as his sister, as a partner to him, as a confidante. Why couldn’t she see that? He began to grow angry. She was an abandoner, like their mother.

  He imagined her escaping through the big wooden doors, racing down the steps, and diving into his own arms. But what would Clement say to her anyway—don’t marry Lawrence? How might Clement reply when she asked, “Why not?” Mention that he’s the richest man in town? Then Clement had to laugh at his own foolishness. He had no job. He had no station in life. He had no money. He had no inheritance. He had nothing, no prospects. Why should she listen to him?

  And even if she did, Davis would probably swoop down in an instant to corrupt her before Clement could convince her of Davis’s reprehensible and ridiculous intentions. Clement had seen how the two of them looked at each other. Growing up among whores who coddled him as though he was as beloved as the Savior had made Davis too confident and bold. He behaved as if he didn’t realize that he was not only an orphan, but also a black one. He had fewer prospects than Clement did, but he appeared to ignore this fact. What would happen if Angel didn’t marry Thomas Lawrence and Davis pursued her? She was too naive and simple to foresee the dire consequences.

  Clement had to accept this marriage for now. He had to position himself in such a way that he could help Angel when she grew wise to Thomas Lawrence. He had to find a purpose, so that he could show Angel he was a man too and could take care of her. Then they could run away together, find their mother, and learn the truth, so that they could be whole and begin again.

  All morning, Davis’s stomach had rumbled as though a wildcat and a dog were wrestling over a rabbit inside him. He’d been crying, to boot. The night before, he’d cried his eyes red on his bed. Miss Daisy fluttered around him, sick with worry, finally convincing him to drink some whiskey to calm his nerves and dull his broken heart. He’d drunk a quarter of the bottle, and now the liquid was wielding an awful effect on him. Though Miss Daisy had warned him not to, and even offered to make an excuse to Mr. Hatterby, Davis had agreed to play the piano at Angel’s wedding, and now was the time to rally his senses and do it.

  Davis had arrived early to tune, but found he had to race to the church’s outhouse. He sat in there, looking at the knots on the boards and coming close to tears again when there came steps and then a pounding on the door.

  “Go away!” he said. “I’m busy here.”

  Someone pounded again.

  “Go somewhere else,” he yelled. “This one’s in use by an afflicted soul!”

  “This would be the church’s property,” someone said, “and I’ve got to empty my bowels in a terrible way.”

  Davis knew the voice. “Father Paul?”

  “Yes, child,” said the priest. “Davis?”

  “Yes, it’s me hurting in here,” said Davis.

  “Hurry out of there now. What are you doing here anyway? What’s wrong with the outhouse at the Red Swan?”

  Davis stood and wiped his bottom with a corncob from the basket. He tied up his pants and unlatched the door.

  “I’m coming out, but don’t say I didn’t warn you to stand back,” said Davis. He opened it and faced the priest. “My guts are bothering me terrible.” The priest waved him out of the way and rushed in. “I’ve been passing awful odors all morning,” Davis said.

  Once inside, the priest slammed the door and yelled at Davis, “The bells are ringing, and I’ve got to officiate at this ceremony. Come back later.”

  “I’m here to play the piano and witness this union.”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.” A fierce and unpleasant series of noises expelled from inside. “Does Thomas Lawrence know how you feel about Angel?”

  “Nah, nobody does. But Mama. But you. But a coupl’a friends and some folks at the Red Swan, but I’m playing it close to my chest,” said Davis. He leaned against the outhouse wall.

  “Could you give me some privacy, please?” said the priest. He sighed. He blew air. He groaned and whispered, “Oh Lord.”

  “Sure, Father,” said Davis. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll talk soon, just not now,” said the priest. “I understand your heart is hurting. But don’t make a commotion. Thomas Lawrence could ruin you.”

  Davis smacked his head against the outhouse.

  “I’m sorry, Davis. If it helps, I know how you feel. I loved a girl once too, believe it or not.”

  “Thanks, Father.

  “And Davis,” said the priest.

  “Yes, Father,” answered Davis.

  “I’m sorry about this. I wish I could say something to comfort you, but the world is not yet what we wish it to be and choices for many of us are limited.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  Midway through the ceremony, an awful smell wafted from the area near the piano and the altar and the couple kneeling before it in prayer. And though none of the guests coughed or remarked about it, Father Paul, while consecrating the Host, twitched his nose and grinned.

  41

  Angel’s Wedding

  ANGEL TRIED TO FOCUS on the matter at hand, getting married, but the ether had long-lasting effects. She’d only meant to calm her nerves but perhaps had overindulged. The church spun. Father Paul’s words echoed. She tried to appreciate the years of planning her mother had put into this moment. She tried to remember the names of her father’s friends from all over the country who’d come to watch her wed Thomas Lawrence, who himself had a long and impressive guest list. The ether had left a thin iron scent in her nose and taste in the back of her throat. Angel looked to her right, at the stocky man with graying hair at his temples, and giggled. She hardly knew him and tonight they’d share a bed. It seemed silly. She felt woozy. Thomas Lawrence reached over and put his hand on her back to steady her. She giggled again. She knew he thought her beautiful. He had told her that many times when he courted her in the parlor. On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, he’d kn
elt on her mother’s carpet and asked for her hand. She had picked a cat hair off his shirt and said, “Yes, thank you,” just as her mother had insisted.

  Angel burped softly. “Pardon me,” she whispered.

  Thomas Lawrence rubbed her back harder.

  Her mother cleared her throat from the first row.

  Angel rolled her eyes and giggled again. She rocked back on her silk slippers, ordered all the way from Paris, France, along with the gown she wore, light pink with brown trim. Angel had wanted to wear white, but her mother had said that white was garish and made her look like a corpse.

  Father Paul consecrated the Host. A rotten aroma filled the church.

  “Smells bad in here,” Angel whispered to Thomas Lawrence. He stifled a laugh too. They looked at each other. Angel thought that he was quite handsome. But then she thought about Davis. Was she fickle? Was her heart disloyal? It was impossible anyway. Davis had to know that. She felt a little guilty, but she was excited too about Thomas Lawrence. She was proud that such a man found her desirable. She lifted the handkerchief to her nose again and sniffed. “Ohhh,” she sighed.

  Her mother cleared her throat again.

  Angel looked over her shoulder toward the woman. “Oh stop it,” Angel said, a little too loudly. Thomas Lawrence again put his hand on her back. He rubbed his thumb against her spine. She liked it. “That feels nice,” she said to him.

  What feels nice?

  Angel’s throat thickened. Clement.

  What feels nice?

  Angel brought the handkerchief to her nose again and breathed lightly. The ether dulled the proceedings. The priest looked thin and effervescent. The whole church seemed to be perched on a cloud. Only the hand of the man she was marrying anchored her in the here and now.