East of Orleans

by Renee' Irvin

  Patrick fumbled in his pockets, trying to keep a straight face said, “I am taking this young lady home. She doesn’t feel well.”

  Isabella looked at her helplessly.

  The woman gave a weak smile, “I’m sorry you are not feeling well. I hope you get better soon.”

  Isabella tried to nod and said, “Thank you, Miss…?”

  “Jacqueline, Jacqueline Rousseau, and you are?”

  Patrick’s eyes met Jacqueline’s.

  “Isabella, Isabella McGinnis.”

  Jacqueline’s eyes danced blazes of fire.

  Priscilla’s jaw dropped and she grabbed Elora’s hand. “Lawd, child, let’s go over and feed the birds some bread crumbs dat I brought with me.” She glanced at Jacqueline. “There ain’t no point in us being round dat bad woman. I’se a Christian woman and if Mister Jules hear of me bringing his child round such as dis, I’se need mo’ than de lawd to help me.” Priscilla pushed the baby carriage back over to the center of the park, away from Patrick, Isabella and Jacqueline.

  Isabella had imagined this time to be more exhilarating than it was, but it could not have been tenser. Here she was in Patrick O’Brien’s carriage, and who, of all people, was staring at her, but the woman her husband kept in a house on Oglethorpe. The most beautiful woman Isabella had ever laid eyes on.

  Patrick looked up at Jacqueline, her long hair fell loose around her breas,t pulled away from her face by a French rhinestone clasp. He gave her an odd look, “Darling, do you want to ride with us?”

  Eyeing Isabella, Jacqueline whispered, “Oui.” and slipped into the back seat. Not another word was said until Patrick pulled in front of the house on Monterrey. Isabella started to get out of the carriage, then turned to look back at Jacqueline and their eyes locked. There was a realization that this indeed was her husband’s whore. It was in her eyes—something Isabella had never seen before. The look of a woman that had shared the same man, no words needed to be exchanged the language was universal.

  “Can I see you to the door?” asked Patrick.

  “Thank you,” whispered Isabella as she climbed out of the carriage, “but I can manage.”

  She turned and ran up the steps and into the house. Patrick heard a voice scream out and to his amazement, Jules McGinnis walked out from the back of the house and came right up to the carriage. He stared malevolently at Patrick and Jacqueline. “What in the hell are the two of you doing sitting in front of my house? Isn’t it enough that you’ve tried to steal my other house, what are you up to now? Are you here to take this one, too?”

  Patrick looked up at Jules in surprise. “It seems we share a similar concern this morning,” said Patrick.

  Jules raised his broad chin and narrowed his eyes, “There ain’t nothing you got, O’Brien, that would concern me, nothing except my goddamn house.”

  “Does your wife not concern you?” asked Patrick with a smug face.

  Jules eyes scanned the two of them and then he said, “What’s she got to do with the two of you?”

  Patrick arched his brows. “I met Isabella in the park, she didn’t feel well, and we brought her home.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Is something wrong?” asked Patrick.

  Jacqueline glanced at Jules and smirked.

  Jules anger mounted. “I don’t know what the two of you are up to, but I had better not catch you over here again. O’Brien, I catch your sorry ass laid up in my house and I ain’t gonna think about Kate. You hear me, boy!”

  “If, indeed, it was your house, I would do as you have asked. However, I believe that the house on Oglethorpe belongs to Miss Rousseau. You see, I did a little title work at her request and, well, it seems that you have had a lapse in memory. You deeded her the house, free and clear. I believe the wordage was something to the effect: I Jules Madison McGinnis, grant to Jacqueline Marie Rousseau, the house on Oglethorpe for the consideration of one dollar, love and affection.”

  “You crazy bastard,” said Jules.

  “Yes, well, that goes without saying. I am Catholic, and I practice law in this town so I suppose I’d have to be a little crazy.”

  “You’re as much of a lawyer as I am the president of the United States, you no good sonofabitch!”

  It was about that time when Annalee Hancock and Lucy Baker walked around from the back of a neighbor’s house. The two ladies had made a trip over to Monterrey to look at a rose that won first place in their garden club contest.

  “Oh my, Annalee, is that--?”

  “Yes, dear, it’s our neighbors.”

  “Have you seen him lately?” asked Annalee.

  “Which one?”

  “Well, Mr. McGinnis, of course; isn’t he the one that lives there?” asked Annalee.

  Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him lately. Well, I shouldn’t say that. I did see him over there the other night and he left at an hour that was early in the morning.”

  “Did you hear what they just said?” asked Annalee.

  “Yes, Mr. McGinnis called that young man a crazy—Annalee, I don’t want to repeat what he said, you heard him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, dear, I did. He called him a crazy bastard. You know who that young man is, don’t you?”

  “No, who?” asked Lucy.

  “Why, that’s Kate O’Brien’s son, Patrick,” Annalee whispered.

  Lucy was wide-eyed. “Lord, you don’t mean it. What do you know about the situation?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to worry you; I knew you’d been sick and all, but it’s all over town so I might as well tell you,” said Annalee.

  “Tell me now,” said Lucy.

  Annalee began to tell Lucy all the things that she had heard around town about Jules bringing Jacqueline Rousseau to Savannah and living in the grand house together with her on Oglethorpe and not being married. She went on to say that something happened that caused Jules to leave and then Kate O’Brien’s son moved into the house.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Lucy.

  “I’m sure as I can be. Leah Banks bought her husband a new coat and it didn’t fit. Leah took the coat over to Mrs. Davenport’s girl Daisy, you know, the young mulatto girl that does alterations. Anyway, Daisy told Leah that they baptized a bunch of people at the Negro church Sunday several weeks ago. One of the women they baptized was the colored girl that worked for that woman on Oglethorpe. She told Leah that she had to leave because they were all crazy and she was scared to death.”

  “Lord, you don’t mean it?” said Lucy. “Does Kate know?”

  “I don’t think so. Last I heard she didn’t, anyway,” said Annalee. “You know they’re Catholic and Catholics’ look at things different than us Baptist.”

  Lucy nodded. “Well, I know, but I wouldn’t think that she would want her son mixed up in a mess like that even though they are Catholic.”

  “No, I don’t guess she would. Let’s talk about something else. I hate to gossip,” said Annalee. “I just didn’t want you to find out and then be hurt because I didn’t tell you what was going on.”

  “Well, we knew what was going on, we just didn’t know who all was involved,” said Lucy. “It would have come out eventually. Lord, I hope they don’t shoot each other.”

  The two ladies strolled past Isabella and Jules’s house on Monterrey and leaned over to look a little closer. Patrick and Jacqueline had left and Jules had gone inside.

  “Now who lives here? Does Mr. McGinnis own this place, too?” asked Annalee.

  “That’s what I heard.” Lucy looked out of the corner of her eye and said softly, “They say he married that young girl who had a baby and worked down on Riverstreet in that tavern that Kate’s son bought.”

  “Oh, how awful, and when I think about how hard Kate has worked to try to make something of that boy. You know they sent him to law school. You’d think he’d know better,” said Annalee.

  “You’d think, but he is a lawyer. And remember, they’re Catholic and Catholics don’t th
ink like we do,” said Lucy with a smug grin.

  “I know, Lucy dear, but Mr. McGinnis, he’s not a Catholic, is he?”

  “No, Annalee, he’s not. But, you know, he used to play cards and drink with Sherman, what do you expect out of him?”

  “That’s right. I had forgotten about that. He did, didn’t he?” Lucy was dead serious.

  In the warm, wet, humid morning, the two women walked on home where the cries of “Cotton, King Cotton!” Could be heard in the distance.

  For the rest of the day, Isabella lay curled up in her bed. Early that evening, Jules walked into the bedroom and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “You don’t feel well? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “If I knew, hell, I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I?”

  “There ain’t no telling what you might or might not be doing. You brought that Priscilla in here to cook and she’s made me sick.”

  “Oh,” Jules grinned with a wrinkled brow. He sat down on the bed. “I heard Patrick O’Brien brought you home today?”

  “Him and that woman.” Isabella looked up and studied Jules’s face.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Do you know her?” asked Isabella

  “Who?”

  “That woman, Jules. You know who.” Isabella was enjoying taunting him.

  Jules took her hand and kissed it.

  “Don’t touch my hand and don’t kiss me. I know who she is.”

  “You do?” Jules said quietly.

  Isabella leapt to her feet. “Don’t you have any shame? I hate you. You can have your whore, but I want a divorce and I want to go home.”

  Jules smiled a slow smile and eyed Isabella. “That’s why I like you. You’re the only woman I know who’s not afraid to say what she thinks. That’s what I’ve always admired about you.”

  “Did you hear what I said? I want a divorce and I aim to get one. I know about you and that whore and I want out of this marriage.”

  “There ain’t no difference in you, Mrs. McGinnis, and Jacqueline. The only difference is Jacqueline knows who she is and you, well, you are just a little more clever at covering yours up.” Jules curled his bottom lip and lit a cigar.

  Isabella slapped Jules hard across the face. “I’m leaving here tonight, just as soon as I pack my things, and I ain’t never coming back, divorce or no divorce!”

  “Suit yourself, Mrs. McGinnis, but you may want to stop and think about what you are about to do before you go tearing out of here in your condition.”

  “What condition are you talking about? Just because I can’t eat Priscilla’s food and I got a little sick at the park and it ain’t any wonder as hot as it was and all those mosquitoes biting on me!” Isabella said, breathless again and feeling sick to her stomach.

  Jules got up and watched her with intense interest. “The last time I remember seeing a woman as sick as you she was pregnant. If I were you, I’d pay Doc Chandler a visit.”

  Isabella stormed out of the room, and screamed, horrified at his words, even more horrified that he might be right.

  Dr. Chandler turned to face Isabella, “Just as I thought,” he said gathering up his equipment.

  “What does that mean?” Isabella said with a worried look.

  “It means you’re going to have a baby.”

  “It can’t mean that! This can’t be happening to me!”

  Deep inside her mind Isabella knew that she could be pregnant, but she did not want to admit it.

  Dr. Chandler shook his head. “Well, it’s happening, so you might as well get used to it.”

  “You’re a doctor, can’t you do something?”

  “No, and even if I could, I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a sin.”

  “It’s a bigger sin to bring a baby into this world when its mother don’t want it.”

  Dr. Chandler turned his large body toward Isabella. “I understand your position, but in a few months from now, you will have forgotten what you feel today and you’ll have a healthy baby.”

  Isabella left Dr. Chandler’s office and tried to forget all about the baby, Jules baby. She would just have to keep it a secret. That was it; she would keep this entire mess a secret until she could figure out what to do.

  When she arrived home, Jules was standing in the doorway. His blue eyes pierced her as she walked past him. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Don’t you have any respect for anyone’s privacy?” said Isabella. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom.

  Jules walked up behind her and said, “I’ve got to ride over to Beaufort to check on my sharecroppers. You want to ride over with me?”

  Isabella was speechless. Jules had never asked her to join him and see about his business before. She wondered why he was asking her now. “Why?” she asked.

  “Well, since you’ve tried to turn my business tactics into an Inquisition, I thought that I’d just take you and show you how good them niggers have got it over there.”

  Isabella gazed out the window. At first, she did not want to go, but the more she thought about it the more she decided that she wanted to see for herself. She needed more her husband’s word that he treated the sharecroppers well.

  “When are you going?” asked Isabella.

  “I thought I’d ride over there in the morning. Does that suit you?”

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Her eyes rested on Jules and she knew by looking at him that he knew about the baby even if he didn’t say anything. She thought about the plan and Jacqueline Rousseau, but for the moment, she would have to abandon it. She had worse problems now and she would take first things first.

  Later that evening, Jules left to play poker. He walked to his warehouse where the other players were waiting for him. The air smelled of whiskey and smoke. Jules threw up his hand and made quick gestures of recognition as he lit his cigar and headed toward an oak table that had been pulled out from a back room. A group of men could be seen through a thick hazy light. They were seated around the table; they grinned and nodded with cards in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Messages could be heard, bets were being placed, cards were being shuffled and money was being pulled out of pockets until there was a huge stack in the center of the table. Jules seated himself at the head of the table. “We’ve all been waiting on you, boss,” said Hoyt.

  “Hell, have I got any whiskey left or have you sorry bastards done drank it all? Yawl are just like the damn Yankees, flying in here like a swarm of locusts, taking what you can and leaving nothing,” said Jules.

  “What’s the matter with you tonight, boss?” Hoyt eyed Jules suspiciously.

  Across the table, a pair of blue eyes twinkled and a silver-haired gentleman said, “Now, you fellows know, Jules has a young wife at home. I’d be ill, too, if I had to leave something that looked as good as she does and then come down here and have to look at all you ugly bastards.”

  Quick smiles traveled around the table and roars of laughter were heard.

  “Raise you,” said a voice.

  “John, is that brother of yours still buying up old slave shacks to rent out to sharecroppers?” asked Jules.

  John twisted the end of his moustache and said in a slow drawl, “I think so Jules, but hell, you know how tight he is. Course, I don’t reckon, I have to tell you that. You’ve done business with him before, haven’t you? What you wanting to do, get rid of some of yours?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking about it,” Jules said.

  “It’s a damn shame, what them niggers are doing over there, ain’t it, boss?” said Hoyt.

  Jules thought hard for a moment. “Hell, I’ve done everything I know to do. I give them a place to live, help haul the crops to the auction, and then I even give em a little money and hell, they still want to steal from me. I can’t be here and over there, too. It’s just gotten to be more t
han I can handle.”

  Foghorns could be heard in the distance of the dark cloudy night.

  If there was one thing Jules McGinnis did not believe in, it was a woman in business or sticking her noise in her husband’s business. There had been a movement on the outskirts of town. Some of the Negroes had been protesting that they had not been treated right since the war. A few of the protestors had managed to get their hands on some guns and it was not safe traveling to Beaufort at night. But as dangerous as it was, Isabella had no intention of staying home. She was making that trip to Beaufort with Jules and that’s all there was to it; besides, it was not night.

  Jules pulled in front of the house and Priscilla walked out on the verandah and said, “She’ll be ready in a minute, Mister Jules. Shure is nice, you taking Miz Isabella on dis ride with you dis morning. I knows she’s real happy bout dat.”

  Jules raised his brow and smiled. Isabella ran out of the house and climbed up into the buggy. Jules clutched her arm and their eyes met. “You seem to feel better this morning,” he said gently.

  A wicker pony carriage being pushed by a black mammy strolled past them as they moved out into the street. Isabella turned her head and ignored Jules. She hoped Jules would not mention the carriage.

  “What are you mad about?” asked Jules.

  “I ain’t mad about a thing.”

  “Why don’t we try and have a nice day,” he said, staring at Isabella.

  “That’s fine with me.”

  The ride into Beaufort was pleasant. The rain from the night before had cooled the air, but it was still humid. Isabella had braided her long hair, but tendrils curled up around her face and neck. She looked like a child who had just come in out of the rain.

  Isabella’s eyes were on the road. She observed the charcoaled ruins left by Sherman. Lazy blankets of moss hung from massive oak trees, often shading headstones of Confederate soldiers. The closer they got to Beaufort there were fields sprinkled with black women and their young; sometimes still nursing at their breasts. Isabella saw a young mulatto girl with three little children. Two pulled at her calico apron and one was in her arms.