Sweeter Savage Love

by Sandra Hill

  Glancing down at the curly haired girl-child at her feet playing with three rag babies, Blossom felt a contentment she hadn’t enjoyed in years.

  Oh, it nigh broke her heart to see the neglect and decay surrounding her, but that would soon change. She hoped.

  The kitchen and her bedchamber on the lower level were the only rooms being used now in the four-story master house. The main flanks of the Union army hadn’t come this far into the bayous, but marauding soldiers, from both sides, had broken windows and stolen whatever small items of value they could cart off. Blossom and the few former slaves who had remained hid what they could, waiting for the master to come home.

  For nearly ten long years, they’d been waiting for the master to come home. And stay.

  Blossom’s time on earth was drawing to a close. She knew that and was unafraid. The Almighty had been calling her to the Promised Land for years, but she’d held on here. For the child’s sake. And for that other needful child, though he was a man now.

  “Will my papa be comin’ home soon?” Saralee asked, tugging on Blossom’s gown to get her attention.

  “Yes, sweet girl. Soon.”

  Blossom patted the wild ebony waves of her seven-year-old darling’s hair, which were topped today by a crown made of old newspapers intertwined with violets. Although there were a number of colored children about the plantation, the lonely child often played pretend games, off by herself. One day she played a princess, the next a cowboy. Saralee was as neglected and damaged as Bayou Noir itself.

  “And will we live happily ever after? Like the fables Miz Ellen tells us in the schoolroom?”

  “I surely hope so, chile. I surely do.”

  “Tell me about my papa again, Blossom. Please.”

  With a deep sigh, Blossom began, “When Etienne Baptiste was a li’l no-count boy, no higher than a tree stump…”

  Harriet felt like sobbing the next morning when they arrived at Bayou Noir plantation.

  The “grand old lady,” a once noble mansion, was a wreck. Broken windows. Shutters off or hanging by a hinge. Honeysuckle vines covering almost all of the exterior. Roof caving in on one porch. The garçonnière half burned down. Even worse, the ever-encroaching bayou had turned the grounds into a veritable jungle.

  And Etienne didn’t help matters at all. He’d been complaining ever since they’d entered the outer perimeters of his property fifteen minutes ago.

  “There’s a damn crevasse in the levee.

  “What’re all those workers doin’ in that sugar field?

  “That sugar cane looks stunted.

  “Who’s makin’ rum in that still behind the boiler sheds?

  “The bayou has crept all the way up to the house.

  “Who told Ellen she could start a school in the warehouse?

  “Is that a three-legged chicken I see comin’ out of that chicken coop?”

  They all ignored his ranting, even when they emerged from the pirogue…until Harriet finally snapped. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Why don’t you direct some of that negative energy in a positive direction?”

  “Like what?” he fumed, hands on hips.

  Cain and Abel had scurried off toward the fields once they’d tied up the pirogue, no doubt wanting to escape Etienne’s wrath.

  She and Etienne were standing at the bottom of an incline that at one time would have led under a wide archway of two parallel lines of massive oak trees dripping Spanish moss all the way up to the colonnaded mansion. Now it would take a machete to get through the dense overgrowth.

  “Well? Like what?” he repeated.

  “Like stay home and take care of business. Like stop playing silly spy games and work where you’re obviously needed. Like stop feeling sorry for yourself and count your blessings. Like get a life.”

  He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, probably counting to ten. She didn’t care, Someone had to set the fool straight.

  In the distance, she heard the field workers break out into a poignant work song:

  “Bring me a little water, Silvie,

  Bring me a little water now.

  Bring me a little water, Silvie,

  Every little once in a while.”

  Etienne tilted his head, listening. Harriet could tell that the song provoked strong memories for him.

  “Listen, Etienne,” she said more calmly. “You have this beautiful, wonderful paradise here. How can you neglect it so? How can you let it…die?” Her voice cracked with emotion.

  Etienne tilted his head in puzzlement. “You consider this beautiful?” His voice also seemed choked. He obviously loved his home. Why did he stay away?

  “Of course it’s beautiful. Oh, not the way it is right now,” she said, waving her hand to encompass the whole sorry mess. “But when I saw your photograph of Bayou Noir…the one you carry with you all the time…I felt such a deep pull in my heart.” Harriet put both hands over her chest to demonstrate. And to her distress, she realized that she was weeping.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” Etienne said. “You’re crying over a broken-down house and worthless land.”

  She shook her head fiercely. “Not worthless. Never. And you’re crying, too, Etienne. Yes, you are. Inside.”

  She could see the visible effort it took for him to swallow. When he finally spoke, she could barely hear his words. “It’s hopeless.” Then louder, “It would take a fortune to bring this plantation back. Too much work.” His blue eyes were bleak with misery. “There were more than twelve hundred sugar plantations in Louisiana before the war. Now there are less than two hundred.”

  “Excuses!”

  He grimaced with disgust at her obstinacy. “What the Yankee blockade and Southern railroad takeovers didn’t do to destroy the sugar empire is being finished off by foreclosures and lack of funds to replace expensive machinery. Not to mention hiring hands in place of slaves.” He sighed deeply. “It’s impossible.”

  “You could do it if you wanted. It would be expensive, yes, but it would be a labor of love. If I had a home like this”—she paused wistfully “I’d never leave.”

  He regarded her with an odd intensity, but didn’t speak.

  At first, she thought Etienne was going to take her into his arms. If he did, Harriet feared she would never be the same again. It would mark a turning point of monumental importance.

  Fortunately, he only took her hand and drew her toward a path through the thick foliage. His palm pressing against hers felt warm and comforting and sexual. And, oh, so right.

  She was so confused.

  “Harriet, prepare yourself,” Etienne warned as they neared the house. His mouth turned up with a small, self-deprecating grin. “I’m about to introduce you to Blossom. The Holy Terror of the South. You’re gonna love her.”

  A black woman of about ninety stood leaning on a cane. She watched their approach with patient dignity.

  Under his breath, she thought Etienne added, “The bane of my old life meets the bane of my new life. Sacrebleu!”

  Etienne glanced at the woman at his side and laced his fingers more tightly with hers. Somehow Harriet’s clasp gave him strength to face all the haunting memories. With Harriet at his side, the demons stayed at bay. Hah! The demons probably feared she’d start lecturing. Her nagging could rub even the devil’s tough hide raw, Etienne thought with a grin.

  “Don’t you be turnin’ that wicked smile on me, Etienne Baptiste.” Blossom stood imperiously at the edge of the lower gallery in a crisp red calico gown with a matching kerchief around her head.

  Etienne expelled a long breath, then braced himself. I sure hope there’s some rum left in that still.

  “Where you been the past year, boy?” Blossom demanded. “I oughta take my cane to your backside, you rascal.” She glared at him, the way she’d been doing the past thirty-one years, since his first misdeed…coming out of the womb, no doubt. It was the “evil eye,” known to reduce little boys and grown men to mush.

  Then, unable to suppress a whi
mpering cry, Blossom opened her arms wide. She never could stay angry with him for long.

  Etienne hesitated only a moment before picking her up by the waist and dragging her into a tight embrace. Her feet dangled high off the floor. Had she shrunk even more the past year? Was she as ill as she appeared? No, no, Blossom would live forever. She would always be here for him. Always.

  “Lord-a-mercy, how I missed you!” Blossom wailed, patting his shoulders, Her face was pressed into his neck, where tears streamed wetly under his open collar.

  “I missed you, too, Blossom,” he admitted and held the old woman much too long.

  Deeply touched, Harriet watched the reunion between Etienne and Blossom. And she noticed what they didn’t…the little girl, about seven years old, who stood in the deep recesses of the gallery. Saralee. Etienne’s daughter.

  But where is her mother? And was Etienne telling the truth when he said he’d never married? Is the child illegitimate? Hmmm. Etienne has a lot of explaining to do.

  The precious girl with an unmanageable mop of long black curls gazed at her father with yearning in her blue eyes. She wore a homemade crown of newspapers and limp violets. Her cape, worn over a plain blue homespun gown that reached her ankles, was a much-darned lace tablecloth, and her scepter was a rolling pin. Three rag dolls were lined up at her feet her royal subjects.

  Etienne gave Blossom one full spin before placing her firmly on her feet and handing her the cane that had fallen to the ground. “Blossom, I want you to meet Dr. Harriet Ginoza.” He stretched out a hand and pulled Harriet closer. “She’s my prisoner,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows.

  But Blossom’s eyes were fixed on the clasp of Etienne’s hand with hers. She raised her eyes in question, meeting Harriet’s head-on. “Is she your intended, Etienne? You finally settlin’ down?”

  “Good God, no! Harriet is a…ah…une vielle fille.”

  “What’s that?” Harriet asked suspiciously. Knowing Etienne, it probably meant something like “a horse’s ass.”

  “An old maid,” Blossom translated.

  “I am not!” He was probably using this tactic to divert Blossom’s attention away from him and his errant ways.

  “You two been nekkid together?” Blossom’s voice was strangely hopeful.

  Harriet rolled her eyes at Blossom in a feminine version of “In spades!” Then she narrowed her eyes at Etienne. “Did you hear about the dumb man who had a growth on his neck?”

  Etienne buried his face in his hands, and Blossom put a thoughtful forefinger to her chin, waiting.

  “His head.”

  Etienne groaned, and Blossom asked, “Is that one of those riddles? Like Miz Selene used to tell about blond women?”

  “Precisely.” Harriet smiled. “Then there was the dumb man who crossed a cow with a mule. He wanted to get milk with a kick in it.”

  Blossom giggled.

  “That’s enough, Harriet. You’ve made your point.”

  “If that don’t beat all!” Blossom exclaimed. “The rascal done met up with his match.” Then she gave Harriet a welcoming hug. Harriet had to bend down into the embrace and, in that split second, Blossom whispered, “You take care of my boy, you heah? Doan go hurtin’ him none. He’s seen too much misery.”

  Harriet nodded, though why Blossom would think she had the power to hurt Etienne, Harriet couldn’t imagine.

  “I gots your favorite jambalaya and corn bread warmin’ in the kitchen.” she told Etienne. “An’ some dirty rice and fandaddies, too. I been expectin’ you all week. You allus was a slowpoke.”

  His eyes crinkled with mirth. “And tipsy cake?”

  Blossom nodded, slapping away his hand when he tried to pinch her cheek. Then a shuffling noise turned Blossom immediately serious as she remembered Saralee. Motioning to the little girl who still cowered in the background, Blossom coaxed, “Come here, sweet girl. Say hello to your papa.”

  Etienne flinched as if Blossom had struck him. “No,” he protested, took one look at Saralee, whose eyes were huge with adoration, and walked right past her and into the house. Without a word of acknowledgment or greeting.

  How could he?

  Harriet and Blossom gasped.

  Saralee’s hopeful expression crumpled and she became as lifeless as the rag dolls surrounding her. The wounded look on her face would touch the most hardened heart. But apparently not Etienne’s. Spinning on her heel, the little girl ran in the opposite direction, away from the house.

  “That boy’s got a head thicker’n a Loo-zee-anna cypress.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me there.”

  “Someone oughta thump his gourd and see iffen he’s got a lick of sense left.”

  “Yep.” Harriet realized then that Blossom was staring at her. “Me?” she squeaked. “He never listens to me.”

  “Ain’t nobody else here I’m jawin’ at, missie. Besides, a woman in love can do anythin’.”

  “In love?” she shrieked. “Ha, ha. ha! No way, uh-uh!”

  “Girl, you eye-eats that man even when he’s spoutin’ nonsense ’bout you bein’ on the shelf. And he gives you the man-look right back.”

  The man-look? Oh, boy!

  “Saralee needs her daddy. Etienne needs her, too. Yes, he does.”

  “Where’s her mother?” Harriet was grasping for straws. The man-look?

  “Dead. The las’ thing Vera done afore she died was bring the baby back here, but Etienne was already in prison by then. He doan wanna believe that the woman what put him there birthed his baby. He reckons it was jus’ another passel of her lies.” Her face went stone-hard with anger.

  Harriet’s mind reeled with all the information being thrown at her. A woman had betrayed Etienne, resulting in his being sent to Andersonville Prison. Then Vera had given birth to his baby, which she’d brought to Bayou Noir before her death. “I don’t understand. Why did Saralee’s mother give her to her father if she hated him enough to put him in prison?”

  “I doubts that Vera ever hated Etienne. In truth, I ’spect she loved him, in her own way. But she were a mighty ambitious girl, and…” Blossom’s words trailed off, and she shrugged.

  “But to turn traitor on a man you love, or loved. It’s hard to believe,” Harriet protested.

  “Folks makes mistakes. Then they tries to make up fer their mistakes. Vera was dyin’ of the wastin’ disease when she come here…. I could see that plain as day. She wanted to make sure Saralee had a home. And she wanted to make her peace with Etienne afore she met her maker. Leastways, that’s what I be thinkin’. ’Ceptin Etienne doan see it that way…yet.”

  That was an understatement.

  “You believe that Saralee is Etienne’s chile, don’tcha?”

  “Of course. She’s a mirror image of Etienne as a boy.”

  “How you recollectin’ what Etienne looked like as a boy?”

  “I saw a photograph.”

  Blossom nodded. “You gonna help?”

  Harriet thought about the hurt on Saralee’s face when Etienne had denied her. “Yes.”

  “Good. I been prayin’ and prayin’ on how to get them two together afore I pass on. And God sent you. Praise the Lord!”

  Me? God sent me in answer to Blossom’s prayer? Harriet sputtered, but no words came out. And she was still thinking about the man-look.

  The old cook hobbled after Etienne, presumably toward the kitchen, muttering, “He best not be touchin’ my jambalaya. That boy needs a good whuppin’. This is worse’n the time he fed Dreadful grapes and we had purple dog business ever’ where. And where’s Cain and Abel? They be needin’ a whuppin’, too, I reckon. ’Specially iffen they’s drinkin’ my rum.”

  Harriet stood alone on the gallery. Stunned.

  There was a lot of work facing her here. And she wasn’t sure who needed her help the most, Saralee or Etienne. The little child, or the big child.

  She decided to tackle the big lug first.

  Later, back in the kitchen, there was no sig
n of Etienne. A grumbling Blossom quickly informed her that he’d al ready scarfed down a bowl of jambalaya with corn bread and a half dozen fandaddies, a southern version of fried clams, before taking off with a huge chunk of cake in hand. Cain and Abel had also made an enormous dent in the feast that had been prepared for them.

  “Sit down, girl. You gots to eat, too,” Blossom said, setting a plate for her on the scarred oak table.

  “This is delicious,” Harriet said enthusiastically after her first bite of the stew, which was rich with smoked ham, shrimp, crab, onions, rice and red peppers. The corn bread melted in her mouth.

  Blossom eased herself onto the opposite bench. “Thank you, but Saralee does most of the cooking now. All I gots to do is watch that she doan burn herself.”

  “Saralee?” Harriet asked with surprise. “She’s too little to cook, isn’t she?” Harriet hadn’t spent much time with kids, except for some of her clients and her sister Sheila’s brat, Hank the Horrid. But she knew lots of modern children, even as young as seven, were forced by the nature of their latch-key lifestyles to become proficient in cooking, at least of the microwave variety. So maybe Saralee wasn’t so unusual, after all.

  Blossom sipped at a cup of ultrastrong Creole coffee before speaking. “My laigs are too weakified to hold this ol’ body for long. I jist cain’t get ’round the way I used to. So I teached Saralee to cook. She makes the bestest cream cakes this side of Nawleans. And her biscuits are so light they pract’ly fly.”

  “Gee, I wonder if she might have a descendant someday who’ll open a bakery,” Harriet said with a chuckle.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” It was an interesting thought, though. ’Cain mentioned that a lot of the former slaves have returned here. Aren’t there women who could help you with the cooking?”

  “Some of them does, but me and Saralee are the only ones livin’ here in the big house. Too many rooms to clean and repairs to make when there ain’t no white folks about to use ’em anyhows. Teachin’ Saralee how to cook…well, it helps pass the time. Besides, every girl should know her way ’round a kitchen, I allus say.” She eyed Harriet. “You knows how to cook?”