"But Mamma, Cotton's drowned," I said.
"There's nothing you or I can do then, Lillian. Please, go on upstairs."
"I've got to tell Eugenia," I said. "She's waiting to hear."
"You'll tell her later, Lillian. First get dry and warm. Go on," Mamma insisted.
I lowered my head and walked up the stairs slowly.
When I turned down the landing, I heard a door squeak open and saw Emily peer out of her room. "Cotton's dead," I told her. "She's been drowned." Slowly, Emily's face folded into a cold smile. My heart began to pound.
"Did you do it?" I demanded.
"You did it," she accused.
"Me? I would never . . ."
"I told you, you're a Jonah. Everything you touch will die or suffer. Keep your hands off our beautiful flowers, don't touch our animals, and stay out of the tobacco fields so Papa doesn't go bust like some other plantation owners have. Lock yourself in your room," she advised.
"Shut up," I snapped back, too full of pain and sorrow to be afraid of her furious eyes anymore. "You killed Cotton. You horrid, horrid person."
She smiled again and slowly retreated into her room, closing the door quickly.
I felt sick to my stomach. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw poor Cotton bobbing under the surface of the pond, her mouth open, her eyes clamped shut by Death. When I got into my bathroom, I started to throw up. My stomach ached so much I had to bend over and wait for the pain to pass. I saw how scratched up my legs were from my running through the brush between the house and the pond, and only then did I feel any pain. Slowly, I took of my wet things and ran my bath.
Afterward, when I was dry and dressed again, I went back downstairs to tell Eugenia the horrid news, my feet leaden as I walked toward her doorway; but the moment I opened the door, I realized she knew.
"I saw Henry," she moaned through her tears, "carrying Cotton."
I went to her and we clung to each other, desperate for the comfort we hoped we could bring to each other. I didn't want to tell her that I believed Emily had done it, but she seemed to know that there wasn't another soul living or working on this plantation that had the cruelness in his or her heart to do such a terrible thing.
We lay together on her bed, our arms around each other, both staring out the window at the heavy rain and the dark gray sky. Eugenia wasn't my real sister, but she was my sister in perhaps a truer sense of the word, for we were both children of tragedy, too young to understand a world in which beautiful and innocent creatures were harmed and destroyed.
Fragile Eugenia fell asleep in my arms mourning the loss of something precious and beautiful in our lives, and for the first time, I was really afraid; not afraid of Emily, not afraid of Henry's ghosts, not afraid of storms or accidents, but afraid of the deep sorrow and pain I knew I was destined to feel when Eugenia was taken from me, too. I clung to her as long as I could and then I slipped away to go to dinner.
Mamma didn't want to talk about Cotton at dinner, but she had to explain to Papa why I looked so distraught and just picked at my food listlessly. He listened and then he swallowed what he was eating quickly and slapped his palm down on the table so hard the dishes jumped. Even Emily looked terrified.
"I won't have it," he said. "I won't have sorrow over some dumb animal brought to my dinner table upsetting everyone. The cat's dead and gone; there's nothing more to be done or said. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."
"I'm sure Henry will find you and Eugenia another kitten," Mamma added, smiling.
"Not like Cotton," I replied, choking back my tears. "She was special and now she's dead," I whined. Emily's lips twisted into a sneer.
"Georgia," Papa said in a tone of reprimand.
"Let's talk about pleasant things, honey," Mamma said quickly. She beamed a broad smile my way.
"How did you do in school today?" she asked.
I took a deep breath and wiped my cheeks dry.
"I got an 'Excellent' for my writing," I replied proudly.
"Why that's wonderful," Mamma said, clapping her hands together. "Isn't that splendid?" She looked at Emily, who pretended more interest in her food. "Why don't you run and get it to show the Captain, honey," she asked.
I looked at Papa. He didn't seem to be listening to a word or have any interest. His jaw worked up and down, his teeth grinding the meat in his mouth, his eyes empty. When I didn't move, though, he stopped chewing and gazed at me. I got up quickly and ran out to the entryway where I had left my things on the table, but when I looked for my paper, it wasn't there. I was sure I had left it right on top. I sifted through all my papers in my notebook and shook out my reader just in case one of the chambermaids had stuck it in between the pages, but I didn't find it.
My eyes filled with tears for a new reason as I returned to the dining room. Mamma smiled in anticipation, but I shook my head.
"I can't find it," I said.
"That's because you didn't have it," Emily chortled quickly. "You made it up."
"I did not. You know I had it. You heard Miss Walker tell the class," I reminded her.
"Not today I didn't. You're mixed up with another day," she said, and threw a smile at Papa as if to say, "Children."
He finished chewing what was in his mouth and sat back.
"Spend more time worrying about your lessons, young lady, and less about what happens to stray farm animals," he advised.
I couldn't help it; I started to cry hard, to bawl like I had never bawled before.
"Georgia," Papa demanded. "Put a stop to this behavior immediately."
"Now, Lillian," Mamma said getting up and coming around the table to me. "You know the Captain doesn't like this sort of thing at the dinner table. Come on, honey. Stop your crying."
"She's always crying for one thing or another at school," Emily lied. "I'm embarrassed for one reason or another every day."
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do. Miss Walker's spoken to me about you many times."
"You're lying!" I screamed.
Papa slammed the table again, this time so hard that the top of the butter dish bounced and rattled on the table. No one spoke; no one moved; I held my breath. Then Papa extended his arm and pointed his thick right forefinger at me.
"Take this child upstairs until she's ready to sit with us at the table and behave properly," Papa ordered. His dark eyes widened with rage and his thick mustache bristled with his fury. "I work hard all day long and look forward to a quiet time at my dinner."
"All right, Jed. Don't get yourself any more upset. Come along, Lillian honey," Mamma said, taking my hand. She led me out of the dining room. When I gazed back, I saw Emily looking very satisfied, a small smile of contentment over her lips. Mamma led me upstairs to my room. My shoulders rose and fell with my silent sobs.
"Just lie down for a while, Lillian dear," Mamma said, bringing me to my bed. "You're too upset to eat with us tonight. I'll send Louella up with something for you, and some warm milk, okay, honey?"
"Mamma," I wailed, "Emily drowned Cotton. I know she did."
"Oh no, dear. Emily wouldn't do anything as horrible as that. You mustn't say such a thing, and especially not in front of the Captain. Promise you won't," she asked.
"But Mamma . . ."
"Promise, Lillian, please," she begged.
I nodded. Already I understood that Mamma would do anything to avoid unpleasantness; if she had to, she would ignore the truth even if it was on the tip of her nose; she would bury her head in her books or her idle chatter; she would laugh at reality and wave it out of sight as if she held a magic wand in her hand.
"Good, darling. Now you'll have a little to eat and then go to sleep early, okay? In the morning everything will look better and brighter; it always does," she declared. "Now, do you want any help getting ready for bed?"
"No, Mamma."
"Louella will be up with something in a little while," she repeated, and left me sitting on my bed. I took a deep breath and then got up an
d went to the window that looked out toward the pond. Poor Cotton, I thought. She did nothing wrong. Her bad luck was she was born here at The Meadows. Maybe that was my bad luck, too—to be brought here. Maybe that was my punishment for causing my real mother's death, I thought. It made me feel so hollow inside that every beat of my little heart echoed and pounded down to my stomach and up to my head. How I wished I had someone to talk to, someone who would listen.
An idea came to me and I left my room quietly, practically tiptoeing down the corridor to one of the rooms in which I knew Mamma had stored some of her personal things in trunks and boxes. I had spent time in the room before, just exploring. In one small metal trunk fastened with straps, Mamma had some of her own mother's things—her jewelry, her shawls and her combs. Buried under a small pile of old lace petticoats were some old photographs. It was where Mamma kept her only pictures of her sister Violet, my real mother. Mamma wanted to bury any trace of sadness, anything that would make her unhappy. As I grew older, I would come to realize that no one lived more under the credo "Out of sight, out of mind" than Mamma did.
I lit the kerosene lamp by the door and set it down beside me on the floor in front of the old trunk. Then I slowly opened it and reached in under the petticoats to come out with the small pile of pictures. There was one framed picture of Violet. I had looked at it briefly once before. Now, I held it in my lap and studied the face of the woman who would have been my mother. I saw a gentleness in her eyes and a softness in her smile. Just as Mamma had said, Violet had the face of a beautiful doll, her features small and perfect. As I sat there staring down at the photograph that had already taken on a sepia tint, it seemed as if Violet were looking at me, too, as if her smile was a smile for me and the warmth in her eyes was warmth meant to comfort me. I touched her mouth, her cheeks, her hair and uttered the word that rushed forward.
"Mamma," I said, and hugged the picture to me. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you die."
Of course, the smile never left her lips; it was just a picture, but in my heart of hearts I hoped she was saying, "It wasn't your fault, honey, and I'm still here for you."
I put the framed picture on my lap and sifted through some of the other old photographs until I found one with my mother and a young man. He looked tall and broad-shouldered and had a handsome smile with a dark mustache. My mother did look very young beside him, but they looked happy together.
These were my real parents, I thought. If they were alive, I wouldn't be so miserable. I was confident my real mother would have felt sorry for me and for Eugenia. She would have cared for and comforted me. In that moment I began to sense something that 1 would sense more and more, in bigger and bigger ways as I grew older: I sensed how much I had lost when dreadful fate was permitted to swoop down and take my real parents from me, even before I ever heard their voices.
In my mind I heard their voices now, distant and small, but loving. My tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped into my lap. My little heart pounded with sadness. Never had I felt so alone as I felt that moment.
Before I could look through any more pictures, I heard Louella calling. I put everything back quickly, turned out the lamp and hurried back to my room, but I knew now that whenever I was feeling terrible or very unhappy, I would go back to that room and hold those pictures in my hands and talk to my real parents who would listen and be with me.
"Where you been, honey?" Louella asked, standing beside my tray on the table.
"No place," I said quickly. It was going to be my secret, a secret with which I could trust no one, not even Louella, and not even Eugenia because I didn't want her to know yet that we weren't really sisters.
"Well now, you just eat something, honey," Louella said. "And you'll feel a whole lot better." She smiled. "Ain't nothin' warm a body's heart and soul as quickly as a full stomach of good food," she said.
Louella was right about that; and besides, I was hungry again and happy she had brought me a piece of her apple pie for dessert. At least I could eat without having to look at Emily's face, I thought, and was grateful for small blessings.
The next day Henry told me he had given Cotton a Christian burial.
"The good Lord puts a little of Himself in all living things," he declared. He took me to Cotton's grave site, where he had even erected a small marker and scribbled "Cotton" on it. When I told Eugenia, she begged to be taken out to see it. Mamma said it was too cold for her to go out, but Eugenia cried so hard, Mamma gave in and said she could go if she bundled up really good. By the time Mamma was finished dressing her, Eugenia had three layers of clothes including two blouses, a sweater and a winter coat. Mamma tied her head in a bandanna so that just her little pink face peered out at the world. She was so weighed down with garments, it was hard for her to walk. Once we left the house and stepped off the porch, Henry lifted her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way.
He had put Cotton's grave behind the barn.
"I wanted her to be close to where she'd lived," he explained. Eugenia and I stood holding hands and gazing at the marker. We were both very sad, but neither of us cried. Mamma said tears would give Eugenia a chill.
"Where do cats go when they die?" Eugenia wanted to know. Henry scratched his short, curly hair and thought a moment.
"There's another Heaven," he said, "just for animals, but not all animals, just for special animals, and right now, Cotton's strolling around, showing off her pretty coat of fur and making the other special animals jealous."
"Did you put my hair ribbon in there, too?" Eugenia asked.
"Surely did, Miss Eugenia."
"Good," Eugenia said, and looked up at me. "Then my ribbon's in Heaven, too."
Henry laughed and carried her back to the house. It took so long to undress her, I had to wonder whether the short trip was worth it or not. But from the look on Eugenia's face, I decided it was.
We never took on a special pet again. I think we were both frightened of the pain that would come if we lost it the way we had lost Cotton. That sort of pain was something you didn't want to experience more than once if you could help it. Besides, we both had the unspoken but strongly felt belief that whatever we really loved, Emily would find a way to destroy and then later justify that destruction with some Biblical quote or story.
Papa was very proud of the way Emily embraced religion and learned the Bible. She was already helping the minister in Sunday School, where she was even more of a tyrant than she was in Miss Walker's classes. Children were more apt not to pay attention in the church school, shut up on nice days when they wanted to be out playing. The minister gave Emily permission to whack the hands of those who misbehaved. She wielded her heavy ruler like a sword of vengeance, cracking the knuckles of any little boy or little girl who as much as smiled or laughed at the wrong moment.
One Sunday she made me turn my hands over and whacked my palms red for daydreaming when the minister left the room. I didn't cry or even moan; I simply fixed my eyes on her and swallowed the pain, even though I couldn't close my hands for hours afterward. I knew it would do me no good to complain to Mamma about it later, and Papa would only say I had deserved it if Emily had to do it.
That year, my first school year, it seemed to me that winter turned to spring and spring into the first days of summer more quickly than ever before. Miss Walker declared that I was doing the work of a second-grade student, reading and writing just as well and even better at math. Words were truly fascinating for me. As soon as I came upon a new one, I wanted to sound it out and discover its meaning. Even though all of Papa's books were still beyond me, I cherished my attempts to read them and understand. Here and there, of course, I did understand sentences and captions under pictures. With each discovery, I felt myself grow more and more confident.
Mamma knew I was doing well, of course, and suggested that I should surprise Papa by learning how to read a Psalm', We practiced every night until I could pronounce all the words. Finally, one night at dinner, just before the end
of the first school year, Mamma announced that I would open the meal by reading the Twenty-third Psalm.
Emily looked up surprised. She didn't know how hard and how long Mamma and I had been working on it. Papa sat back and folded his hands on the table and waited. I opened the Bible and began.
" 'The Lord is my . . . shep . . . herd, I shall not want.' "
Every time I stumbled on a word, Emily smiled. "Papa," she interrupted, "we'll starve by the time she's finished."
"Quiet," he said gruffly. When I finally finished, I looked up and Papa nodded.
"That was very good, Lillian," he said. "I want you to practice it every day until you can do it twice as fast. Then you can read it again for us at dinner."
"That will be awhile," Emily muttered, but Mamma smiled as if I had done something even more wonderful than learn how to read as well as a second-grader in one year. She was always eager to show me off and took every opportunity to do so, especially during her famous barbecues. The first one of the new summer was just a few days away.
Grand barbecues had been part of the heritage of The Meadows for as long as anyone could remember. It was a traditional way to start the summer in these parts, and legend had it that no matter what day the Booths chose for their party, that day would be beautiful. The legend was upheld once again when the day of the barbecue arrived—a lovely June Saturday. It was as though Nature was at our beck and call.
The sky was azure and never more perfect with its tiny clouds dabbed here and there as if painted on by God Himself. Mockingbirds and jays flitted from magnolia tree branches playfully and excitedly, sensing the parade of guests that would soon begin to arrive. Every available laboring hand was busy per-forming last-minute cleaning, moving furniture, and preparing the great feast. The festive air absorbed each and every one of us.
Even the great house, sometimes dark and gloomy because of its vast rooms and high ceilings, was invaded and changed by the sparkling sunshine. Mamma insisted all the curtains be drawn apart and tied, the windows thrown open, and of course, the house itself made positively spotless the day before since it would fall under the inspection of every pair of eyes belonging to every member of every respectable and important family within reach of Mamma and Papa's beautifully engraved invitations.
Darkest Hour Page 6
