The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  marry you. I loved you! I didn't do any of the things Aunt Zoe did. So, why was I so bad? What did I do that was so wrong?"

  "What are you—? Go to your room, Angela. I have charts to mark."

  "You don't like to hear that do you? Or maybe it's too complicated for you. I forgot, your brains are scrambledr I'll make it simple. Mr. Courtland is your father. Aunt Zoe is your mother. Finally they've decided to get married. Does that mean you'll be legitimate from here on out?"

  Adam stared at her in bewilderment. "Where do you get notions like this?"

  Angela smiled slyly. "Oh, I don't know. I guess I must have made it all up. Y'all are always sayin' I'm a liar. 'Night, Adam."

  Angela walked lightly down the corridor to her room. She rummaged in the back of her cupboard, bringing out a low-cut gown she had stolen from Zoe's wardrobe. Pleased with the effect, Angela concentrated hard as she looked in the mirror, changing her childish hairdo into a sophisticated style she had seen the fancy women of the waterfront saloons wear. Then she tugged at the neckline until it was far off her shoulders, showing an expanse of creamy skin. Quietly she slipped down the servants' stairs.

  Adam's pen lightly traced the course from Wilmington to Andros, but his mind wasn't on his charts. Background noises intruded. Laughter. The sounds of clinking glasses. Voices raised happily.

  He got out of bed unsteadily. Angela's words lodged in his mind. Rod was his father. Shakily he walked down the stairs toward the light and laughter. His mother's voice was high-pitched and gay.

  From the parlor door he watched Rod's arms close around Zoe. She held a cordial glass first to her own lips, then turned it for Rod to drink.

  "Can't kiss through a glass. Give your bride-to-be a proper bussin'," Tom said, taking the glass from Zoe.

  "Don't you dare. Rod Courtland! It's not proper in public," Zoe giggled.

  "Since when am I the damned public?" Tom howled.

  Adam stood trembling in the doorway as Rod's lips possessed Zoe's.

  "Well, look what showed up for the celebration," Tom

  said coming to Adam. "It's about time you got your ass down here. There's congratulations in order. Your Ma and Rod are gonna be married. You always told me you'd make a Rebel out of the old sod. Took your Ma to do it."

  Dizzily Adam met Rod's eyes. The room wavered. "You're my father?"

  The smile on Rod's face became fixed. He wasn't sure if it was a straigthforward question or simply another of Adam's lapses into a nightmare world that combined past and present indiscriminately. Cautiously he said, "I guess marrying your mother would make me your father." Rod led him to a chair. "Here, sit down. You shouldn't have come down those stairs. You look ready to pass out."

  Adam leaned back, his face ashen and covered with a moist sheen. Tom shoved his brandy to Adam's lips.

  "You're my father," Adam repeated. "Angela . . ."

  Rod considered, then took Zoe's cold hand in his. "Yes, I am. Your mother and I have always loved one another, and both of us have loved you. I don't know what else to tell you. You've always thought of Paul Tremain as your father, but he wasn't. It's that simple."

  "Adam, I want you to be happy about this," Zoe said earnestly. "I am, dear. I've never been so happy."

  "We'd like your blessings, Adam, if you're able to give them."

  Adam nodded, unable to do more. The brandy had hit his stomach like a hammer blow. Voices all blended together. The room swam, colors bleeding into one another, then fading to a misty gray.

  Rod and Tom carried him back to his room. "Hell of a way for him to find out." Tom scowled. "Where the hell is Angela? Damn! I sent her to her room. I've got some talkin' to do to that young lady."

  He ran down the hall in his crab-legged way. "She's not in her room! I knew it, danm it, I know that little heifer has gone out on the town."

  "Slow down, Tom."

  "I'm gonna find her. Then I'm gonna beat her."

  Zoe said, "She'll be back soon. I don't really think she does anything bad. She just runs when something upsets her."

  "How long's this gone on, Zoe? You never told me why Adam was bringin' her to the swamp. It was this, wasn't it? There's men."

  "I don't know for sure. Adam—"

  Tom's face screwed up. "Of course, Adam! She's always been hankerin' after him. What'd she do?"

  "Nothing! Tom, please, you're excited and angry. We were just worried that she was going to get into trouble. She is very open with . . . everyone. I don't think she realizes what some of these soldiers are capable of. She's familiar with honorable men. She is just young—"

  "Zoe, you're a good woman, but you're dead wrong. I been keepin' my eyes closed tight against every thin' that li'l girl has been doin' an' thinkin' for the past two-three years. But not after tonight."

  Angela came in the rear entrance of the house shortly before two o'clock in the morning. Zoe, half-asleep against Rod's shoulder, awakened, alert to the change in the house noises.

  Tom was heading through the kitchen before a word was spoken. Zoe moved to follow. Rod pulled her back. "She's his daughter. Let him handle it. I haven't been alone with you all evening."

  "I don't understand Angela, Rod. Why does she do the things she does?" Her eyes turned toward the angry voices emanating from the kitchen. Rod pressed her against him, pressing his hand over her ear.

  "Mind your own business, Zoe."

  She wriggled against him, then smiled up at him. "What is my business?"

  He kissed her, his hands warm and searching over her bodice. "I'm your business. Can't you concentrate on that?'*

  "I have been—for years."

  "You don't suppose, in your ponderings, you could find a more comfortable place for me to sleep, do you?"

  She giggled, "I thought you liked the sofa. You said it was the most comfortable sofa you'd ever slept on."

  "It's the only sofa I've ever slept on. You see I never Ue."

  "So where do you propose to sleep? There's the cot— **

  "There's Zoe's bed."

  "Rod, that's sinful."

  "What I'm feeling is just as sinful. Shall we share one sin, or shall we both commit our separate ones?" . She was laughing when Tom stormed back into the room. "Have you seen what your sweet little protegee

  looks like when she gets herself all done up, Zoe? Get in here, Angela! Get in here, damn it, or I'll bring you in myself."

  Reluctantly, her face smeared with tears, her heavy makeup smudged across her face by Tom's ungentle hands, Angela stood in front of Rod and Zoe, her eyes blazing.

  Zoe drew in her breath. "Angela ... oh, Angela—^your pretty face. How could you do that to yourself?"

  Angry tears gushed from Angela's eyes. "You didn't care. None of you cared about me. I found someone who does."

  "You go near him again and I'll break every bone in your head. We'll see how pretty you are then," Tom said savagely. "She's been galavantin' with some black buck."

  Zoe swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Tom himself had married a black woman, but UUah had never seemed any color to Tom. Angela's young man did. "Go to bed now, Angela. In the morning . . . it'll seem better."

  Angela's fists were clenched. A tremor of rage ran through her. "Ohh, I hate you! I hate you!" She ran past her father.

  Tom glared after her. "I'm sorry. We sure put a damper on your night. Best thing I can do for you is get myself out of here."

  "You're welcome to stay, Tom."

  "I know that, Zoe, but I want to get outside. I got to do somethin' about her, an' right now all I can think of is beatin' her to death."

  Angela awakened with puffy eyes, humiliation and resentment hot in her breast. She opened her door and listened. Mammy padded toward Adam's room with a breakfast tray. From below she heard Zoe's voice and Rod's, animated and happy. Outside Rosebud shouted to another man. He, too, sounded happy. She shut the door, crying bitter tears of self-pity. She cried softly at first, then louder. No one came. No one asked how she was or com
forted her noisy tears.

  By noon she was certain no one was going to bother about her. They would never let Adam go without two meals. Everyone in the house would have been beating a path to his room trying to tempt him with delicacies.

  Zoe had never really cared. Angela could see that now. Right from the beginning Zoe had befriended Ullah only for Adam's sake, and later she had gotten stuck with Angela. Even Tom didn't want her. He seldom came to see her, and then he never really wanted to talk to her or take her places. And Adam had made it clear that he wanted no part of her.

  Miserable and building a convincingly sad case, Angela took on the air of an abandoned heroine. Sentimentally she stroked Ullah's tattered box of treasures Tom had given her on her fifteenth birthday. She ran her finger over the box, imagining it to be something of great value.

  Angela had no clear picture of Ullah. It was easy to make her mother beautiful by Angela's standards, make her white, whiter than Zoe, make her rich and powerful. Angela imagined her so seductive that all men, even Adam, had loved her.

  Angela opened the box and took from it Ullah's colored pebbles and shells. Each one was a gem. A ruby sparkled in the palm of Angela's hand next to a sapphire and an emerald. Jade jostled carnehan and moonstone. Diamonds sparkled and winked next to onyx. For a long time she played, making the stones and shells what she wished they were.

  Then she took out the letter from Zoe. It was dog-eared and yellowed. Angela read it as she had so many other times. This time she imagined Zoe was a poor old woman thanking Ullah for permitting her, a woman fallen from grace, to attend her barbecue on Saturday.

  But Angela had drawn her game out too long. The image wouldn't hold. She kept seeing Zoe's shocked face last night when Tom dragged her into the parlor to be humiliated and judged. She saw the clay doll Ullah had saved from her own childhood. Viciously Angela tried to stab her hatpins into the doll, wanting it to be Zoe, and Tom and Rod and Adam.

  Around Angela were all the tawdry, simple things that had meant so much to her mother. To Angela the gems no longer glittered or promised dreams of an impossible future. They were dirty little stones anyone could pick up on the street or beach. The letter was an ordinary acceptance note. Angela ripped it in half, then shredded the paper into jagged pieces. She ground it into the floor, hating the sight of it.

  Still glorying in her own anger, Angela postured before her mirror, her face haughty and superior. Then the expression crumpled into that of a lonely child. "Nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger." She backed from the mirror. She reached for the clay doll. "Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! NIGGER!" She hurled the doll at the mirror. Glass and clay slewed over the floor, tiny shards cutting her feet. Crying, Angela picked up the shells and stones and threw them, the small sharp objects making hard popping noises as they hit the walls.

  Still no one came.

  Late that afternoon Angela dressed and went out. No one stopped her.

  She went to find Tubal Lerner, a man who wanted her, a man who cared enough to be there when Angela needed him. And he was black. She needn't fear discovery with him. If their babies turned out black, no one would care. She needn't fear that either.

  When Tom arrived at Zoe's, Angela was gone. "Where in the hell did she get to? I didn't know they walked the streets in the daytime."

  "I don't even know how long she's been gone. Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry."

  "She can't do nothin' she hasn't done a dozen times before, Zoe. Don't waste yourself on her."

  Angela reappeared after supper. Rod answered the door. Calmly he stepped aside for a gaudily dressed Angela in a newly bought gown to enter, followed by her equally gaudy escort. "Tubal, make yourself comfortable. I'll pack what little I've got and be down in a minute."

  Tom barged into the parlor, his face a mask of disgust. "Get your black butt offa that sofa. Servants in the back, boy!"

  Angela came halfway down the stairs. "Be careful what you say, Mastah Tom. That black boy's gonna be the father of your grandchildren."

  Tom started for her. Rod grabbed him, talking in hushed earnest tones. Roughly Tom pulled free. "If she wants him, she's welcome to him. Damn bitch. Let her go!"

  Zoe joined them, leaving Tubal dressed to his teeth in a stiff collar, suit jacket, and spats and uncomfortable about being in the parlor alone. "Tom, you don't mean that. You can't let her go. She's throwing her life away. She's too young to know better."

  "No whore is born young, Zoe. Sorry to put it that way to you, but there isn't any other word for my—for Angela. Forget her. She's no good."

  Angela, with second thoughts, came slowly down the stairs, her air of superiority less certain. "Well, I guess I'm ready now. Haven't you anything to say to me, Daddy? No blessings? No celebration for me like there was for them?" She walked to Tom, standing near, her eyes seeking comfort in his.

  "I'm glad she's dead. You dirty little bitch, I'm glad your mother isn't here to see you."

  Angela was taken aback. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  "Go on! Take your nigger buck and get out of here!'*

  Angela was too shaken to feel her burning humiliation. That would come later. Now she looked pleadingly at Tom. "I just wanted someone to love me."

  "You found him." Tom stalked from the room.

  Zoe placed her hand on Angela's arm. "We do love you, Angela. Stay with us, dear. It will be all right."

  Angela shook free of Zoe, her eyes blazing now as they hadn't before. "Don't touch me! You—you made fun of me, made me want—oh! I hate you! I hate you! Jubal! I want to leave!"

  Zoe followed. "Angela—if you ever want to come home—"

  Rod pulled her back and slammed the door. '"No, Zoe, we won't be here for her if she wants to come home.'*

  "But Rod, she's a child. She doesn't know—"

  "We'll be in New York." He tUted her face up. "There won't be any more little girls to raise, unless they are ours."

  The wedding was held on Christmas day. Tom gave the bride away. Adam was best man, handing a plain gold band to his father as Rod married his mother.

  Whether the wedding made a sensible impression upon Adam, no one knew or dared question. He seemed happy and joined in the festivities. He embraced Zoe and Rod, expressing happiness for his mother.

  Then, tired, still unable to remain on his feet for long, Adam returned to his room. He slid under the quilts, pulling them close against him. Slowly plans began to form again. The charts he had going over played themselves before his eyes like a series of pictures. Quick little visions

  of the beach at Andros, the sound of the drums, the forest, flashed and were lost to him. Faces came and went: Ben, Rosebud, Rod, Tom, all the people who had refused to help him renew the search for Dulcie.

  At last once face remained. One man, one last hope. Oliver Raymer, an almost forgotten face, now came clear. Oliver had taken Dulcie to Europe. When she was in trouble, Dulcie had run to the Raymers. When she was worried about Jem and Patricia's reception of some bit of news, it was to the Raymers she turned. Oliver loved Dulcie as a daughter. Almost as much as Adam loved her. He would seek "^ Oliver's help.

  He fell asleep with the idea planted firmly in his mind, a slight smile on his lips. For the first time since he had lost her, he felt some hope. Oliver would not refuse him. All he had to do was get to New York. Find Oliver.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As he boarded the Black Swan, Adam's legs trembled, and before his eyes danced little bright spots in the darkness where there was nothing to be seen. Above him a sliver of the quarter moon slipped behind boiling dark clouds. He would have preferred a blacker night. At least a third of his men were not on board. He'd miss R.B., though he knew the smiling black giant would have kept him from sailing.

  Adam stalked the deck as usual, his eyes missing nothing, checking every detail as though the first mate were lacking in competence. Occasionally he leaned on the rail more heavily than he wanted to admit, drawing strength from the salt air, his voice repeating with the was
h of the water that he'd be all right. He'd be all right. The important thing was to find Oliver.

  Oliver would see that the only course left was to go back to Andros and search until they found her. She was there. He should never have believed . . .

  The first mate stood in front of him, saluting. "Steam's well up, sir."

  "We'll wait 'til midnight, Mr. Compton."

  "It's just past, sir."

  Surely he hadn't stood in one spot so long. "What does the lookout report?"

  "Three Federals out about two miles, sir."

  "Very well. We'll hug the shore. Give the orders, Mr. Compton."

  They crept in the shallows mile after mile, then just before dawn struck boldly into the shipping lanes.

  Luck rode with them through the sleepless days and nights until they reached the Long Island coast. Adam hung well offshore until dark, then steamed into Oyster Bay and up into Courtland's cul-de-sac. Someone now occupied the large house, whose bulk loomed against the night sky, staring and ominous like a night bird watching. Adam stared tiredly at the house for some time, then pushed his imaginings aside. There was no enemy in that house, no one watching, no one wishing him ill. Rod would have warned him. After all, Adam thought, managing a weak smile. Rod Courtland was his father. Fathers were known to protect their sons.

  He walked to the foredeck. Rod hadn't known he was leaving Wilmington. . . . Adam shrugged. He had made voyages before without knowing what awaited him. This was no different. He climbed into the jolly boat and kept his eyes fastened on the approaching shore.

  Hans was waiting for him. "Well, Cap'n Tremain! Nice seein' you again, sir. I was afraid we were out of the business."

  Adam stared at him, stupefied with fatigue.

  "With the slaves, sir," Hans explained.

  "Oh, I... I don't have any this time, Hans."

  "Say, Cap'n, not gettin' the grippe, are you? Been a lot of it about."

  "No. Hans, I'll be needing a horse right away. I must ride to the city."

  "Can it wait 'til mornin', Cap'n?" He stared hard at Adam. "You ain't never found that Mr. Raymer home yet."

  Adam rubbed his face. His head was buzzing, the little lights danced before his eyes like fireflies, his skin prickled with old sweat and the memories of bees—hundreds of them angry stinging—swarming. "I need the horse tonight It's been too long already..! can't wait any longer."