House of Rougeaux

by Jenny Jaeckel

  The house was small and dim and cramped, and though the tea warmed her, Eleanor shrunk at the thought that she would spend the whole winter in this place. She was used to her own house, with its constant bustle and activity and ringing of voices. And she had been in New York, surely the most thrilling place on Earth, studying music. Now she was to be shut away with these two strange white women. But if this was her punishment then she would swallow it.

  The small kitchen occupied the whole of the first floor, underneath which was a root cellar, accessed by a trap door. After the tea, and some toast with a funny-tasting jam, Maxis left for her job caring for an invalid in a wealthy neighborhood across town. Mrs. Delaney showed Eleanor upstairs. On the second floor two tiny bedrooms squeezed either side of a short hallway with a water closet at one end and a cramped set of stairs at the other. Eleanor’s room contained a bed, a wardrobe and a small window that looked out onto the back garden, where three adjacent buildings made it a bare well of fallen snow. Eleanor unpacked her things and placed them in the wardrobe. She laid the buggy blanket on the bed, which brought a measure of comfort, and then withdrew Mr. Hathaway’s package from the bottom of the valise. She would wait to open it, so as to have something to look forward to.

  Mrs. Delaney entered the room, knocking lightly on the half-open door. She carried a stack of linens. “You’ll need these,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said, and then rummaged in her coat pockets for the envelope of banknotes Papa had given her for her board. This she handed to Mrs. Delaney.

  “Papa said this would be enough,” Eleanor faltered, “for my stay.”

  Mrs. Delaney’s pale cheeks colored. She took the envelope and tucked it away in her apron. Then she surprised Eleanor by saying, “I’m sorry to take this from you. A girl in need....”

  Neither said more.

  “I’ll just be off to my marketing,” said Mrs. Delaney. “I expect you are tired.”

  Eleanor didn’t know if she was tired or not, but she didn’t want to be left alone right then.

  “Can I come with you?” she said. “I can carry things.”

  “Yes, alright,” said the elder woman. She gave a little smile. “That will be very nice.”

  When they went out again, each with a large basket on her arm, it was beginning to snow. Eleanor took in anew the unfamiliar street, the buildings, the passing carts. They stopped at a vegetable seller and a butcher. Mrs. Delaney inquired in a grocery about having a sack of flour delivered and a wheel of cheese, large items she paid for with banknotes from the envelope Eleanor had brought. Past noon they returned to the house, where Mrs. Delaney served a soup that she’d had simmering on the stove. They ate mostly in silence and Eleanor offered to do the washing up. Mrs. Delaney assented, and then apologized that it was time for her wee rest. She made her way up the stairs and Eleanor soon heard her snoring.

  Dishes washed and dried, Eleanor crept up the stairs thinking she would have one of the ginger cookies Melody had made for her. There were two or three dozen in the tin she had stashed in the wardrobe, and she meant to ration them out for herself. But then, in the hallway, the second set of stairs caught her eye. It must be an attic, she thought. She padded down the length of the hall and then slipped into the narrow passage. The stairs creaked mightily. She stopped at each one, checking for the sound of snoring, until she stood before a tiny brown door with a brass knob. Mrs. Delaney slept on.

  It was indeed an attic, with dust-covered shapes just barely illuminated by the daylight that filtered in through the dirty glass of a miniature window, set in bare brick. The ceiling was so low Eleanor had to stoop even when standing directly in the center. There were a few trunks and crates tucked into the edges where the ceiling met the floor, and something larger covered in a tarpaulin at the farther end. The size and shape were familiar, but it couldn’t be. Her steps disturbed so much dust she had to cover her mouth and nose with her sleeve, and her eyes watered. She lifted a corner of the tarpaulin, catching the faintest gleam of polished wood, and then a bit of scrollwork encrusted with more dust, and then hinges of a fallboard.

  A piano.

  The tarpaulin hit the floor, sending up a thick cloud. Eleanor gingerly lifted the fallboard and ran her fingers over the keys. Two or three were missing or broken, and it was in poor tune, but a real piano nonetheless.

  She heard a rustling, and the sudden sight of Mrs. Delaney at the attic door nearly caused her to jump out of her skin.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’ve found Mr. Delaney’s piano.” She stepped into the attic. “A rare thing, isn’t it? He had to take it almost completely apart to bring it up here. He was in cabinetry, thank goodness.” She wrung her hands in a kind of friendly nervousness. “Do you play?”

  * * *

  The next morning Maxis left early to look after her invalid and Mrs. Delaney departed to where she cleaned the offices of a small law firm two mornings a week. Eleanor, having already eaten more than her ration of Melody’s cookies, returned to the attic. She had found a broom and dustpan in the kitchen and also brought up a bucket of suds and some rags. The attic was nearly as cold as outdoors, but her efforts at dust removal and rearranging, plus the natural added heat of pregnancy, quickly had her perspiring. The piano now stood ready; one of the trunks, with the tarpaulin clean and folded on top, made a decent bench.

  Eleanor sat and ran through her scales. Quickly she learned which keys struck notes in or out of tune, and which few were missing their hammers, because they gave out no sound at all. Poor as the instrument was, touching it was an immense relief. As her hands moved, her imagination rushed in to replace the absent notes, and because she heard this internal music so clearly, the notes that were off bent to their proper form. The heaviness that weighed on her neck and shoulders lightened, and the old electricity shot through her fingers. Like a feral beast, the instrument became tame, charmed into producing a melody, and then another and another. She played the nocturne she learned at the Conservatory, and then the études. She even played the scherzo of Gerard Batiste, which became an ode to the twists of her own life, and to the unmapped horizon toward which her young vessel sailed, recklessly, cautiously, and with no other choice.

  That night before bed she opened Mr. Hathaway’s package. A moment after tearing the paper four books of sheet music lay spread out on the blue and green plaid blanket. The Complete 32 Piano Sonatas of Ludwig van Beethoven, with an envelope of banknotes pressed between the pages of the first volume.

  “My word,” she breathed. Whether or not she deserved it, there was hope after all.

  All that winter she studied the sonatas, played Mr. Delaney’s feral piano in the frozen attic, and did her best to help the Delaney women with the running of their modest household. Her belly grew with the unknown baby inside, and she sometimes dreamt at night of a child laughing, playing a game of hide-and-seek where what was hidden was never found.

  * * *

  Her time came in early February. The labor came on quickly, beginning in the afternoon. The hours did not pass easily for Eleanor. As the waves of pain increased, so did her fear. Fear that she would die, that the baby would die, that either or both would be her punishment, but that first she would be crushed in the Devil’s grip. She lay, gasping between contractions, wondering how soon death would come, and then the pain came on again, obliterating any thought at all.

  Just before midnight the baby’s head emerged, and then the rest of him, the fluid, and finally the afterbirth. The midwife wrapped the baby, saying he looked fine and that she wished all her births went as well. Eleanor lay in a daze as the midwife placed the baby in her arms and helped him to feed. She studied his tiny form with wonder and trepidation: the thin dark curls that clung to his damp head, the little flared nose, the dark eyes that gazed at her a moment and then shut again.

  Eleanor asked Mrs. Delaney to write a note to her brother and sister-in-law for her. She wanted them to call the child Gerard, as it suddenly seemed urgent he
have something of his father. Eleanor would not, could not, care for the baby herself. She felt acutely the lack of space in which to hold him, and yet at once she cared immensely for his welfare.

  There was Gerard Batiste, and now there was a Gerard Rougeaux. He would be Ross’ son, and Mathilde’s, if he survived. Relief that she was free was at once overwhelmed by the shame that she should want that freedom, and that she should have it at all.

  Maxis came and took the child away. She would journey with him, a bottle of milk and an eyedropper, to Montreal and then return alone. Eleanor lay sunken in the bed, bruised and torn. When her milk came in, her breasts swelled and hardened, and then a fever came upon her so strong she dreamed someone was throwing pot after pot of boiling water over her. For days she lay delirious, demons and angels clashing above her, scattering over the ceiling and singing strange versions of songs she thought she knew. Only Isabelle Delaney interrupted the cacophony, feeding her broth with a spoon, and taking away sheets that were soaked with sweat.

  At last the fever broke. Eleanor woke in the dark and lay awake some time, until she heard the great clock in the hall strike five and she knew it was near morning. She got unsteadily to her feet and made her way to the bureau where she found there was still some water in the pitcher, which she drank greedily, and then lay down to sleep again. When she woke next it was daylight and she heard Mrs. Delaney in the kitchen. A little while later, Mrs. Delaney pushed open the door and caught Eleanor’s expression.

  “Oh,” she gasped, “thank Heavens, you are looking better. I was just about to call a doctor.”

  “I’ll live, I guess.” Eleanor tried a smile.

  Mrs. Delaney leaned over her and put a cool hand on her forehead.

  “Think you can eat something?”

  Eleanor felt a lurch in her stomach. It was coming back to life.

  “Porridge sounds good,” she said, but then began to cry. Mrs. Delaney sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t cry now,” she said. “Things will turn out alright.” She didn’t seem sure.

  Eleanor wished with all her might it was her own mother sitting there instead of Isabelle Delaney, but she couldn’t say so. The older woman stood again.

  “Porridge,” she said. “You need your strength.”

  * * *

  Another week passed and in body Eleanor was much recovered, the elasticity of youth being on her side. Mrs. Delaney took her to the Dominion Bank to exchange Mr. Hathaway’s banknotes for American money, and sewed her a special wallet to keep it all safe. They took in Eleanor’s two dresses, returning them to close to their previous width, and even Maxis helped with that. She was surprisingly handy with a needle.

  “I do thank you both,” Eleanor said to them, the night before her leaving, “for all your help, and all your kindness.”

  They were seated at the kitchen table with their after-supper tea.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Delaney, a blush rising in her cheeks, “we shall miss you. Won’t we, Maxis?”

  Maxis fixed her stare on Eleanor. It wasn’t so unnerving now.

  “And so shall Da’s piano,” she said. The trace of a smile spread across her face and she emitted a low hiccuping sound. Maxis was laughing.

  “I will send it a card next Christmas,” said Eleanor, and she and Mrs. Delaney burst into giggles, as Maxis hiccupped louder.

  * * *

  Eleanor returned to New York a wiser woman, with a new sense of determination and purpose. She knew she would see Gerard Batiste at the Conservatory but felt her business with him was finished. For her mistakes she could blame no one but herself. If there were any repairs to be made now it was with Alma. The Vance was full, but Eleanor got a room at another boarding house on the same block. She left a message for Alma at the concierge desk and the two of them met the next evening at a café.

  It was dusk and a late winter snowfall glowed around the streetlights. Alma sat across from Eleanor, stirring her cup of coffee with milk and cinnamon that was a specialty of the café. She wouldn’t meet Eleanor’s eye for the longest time.

  “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. Without telling you why.”

  Alma heaved a sigh and looked out the window before speaking.

  “Why didn’t you?” Her delicate eyebrows knit together, the hurt was plain to see.

  “I just couldn’t,” Eleanor said.

  “You couldn’t tell me?”

  “No.”

  “You were in trouble.”

  “Did you know all along?”

  “I thought maybe.”

  The girls were quiet a while, then Alma spoke again.

  “Nora, where’s the baby?”

  “In Montreal, with my brother’s family.”

  “Mercy,” Alma breathed.

  Eleanor was grateful to see that by the time their coffee was finished her friend had forgiven her and their intimacy was renewed. More than half a year had passed and they had much catching up to do. When they left the café they strolled arm in arm, not caring that snow piled up on their shoulders.

  There were no more secrets between the two, as their years as students continued and saw them grow steadily toward womanhood. Sam Higgins remained a close friend, and Eleanor found mentors in a number of the faculty, and even in Jeannette Thurber herself, who invited Eleanor to tea in her drawing room many times.

  Ever interested in “polishing her diamonds,” Jeannette Thurber frequently made these invitations to the Conservatory’s most promising students, particularly the young ladies. She had taken an early interest in Eleanor. They always began and ended their talks discussing music, but visited other subjects of life as much as Eleanor allowed. Mrs. Thurber observed the younger woman grow quiet when asked about her family in Montreal. She guessed the reticence could have something to do with Eleanor’s delayed entry into her studies, but never pressed her for details. Instead, Mrs. Thurber offered encouragements and suggestions on Eleanor’s playing. She spoke philosophically about finding hidden doors and seeing whether or not they could be coaxed open. Eleanor drank in the advice, along with her tea, gathering Mrs. Thurber’s words like jewels scattered on the ground, even if their meaning sometimes eluded her.

  Gerard Batiste left the Conservatory for another appointment after Eleanor’s first year was complete. He nodded to her in the halls, but that was all. She avoided his classes, assuming that would be to their mutual relief. If he ever had his way with other students she never heard about it. By the end of her studies Eleanor had received numerous recognitions, and upon graduation was offered an assistant professorship.

  In the next few years, as the century raced toward its end, she spent her days with her young pupils at the Conservatory, and her evenings in private lessons, anything to get together a few more dollars to send home to her brother Ross. Despite the opportunities afforded to her by the Conservatory, there were few avenues indeed where a musician who was a woman, and colored too, could make her living. The private lessons had to be sought among colored folks, where funds were generally scarce; teaching children, often reluctant ones, was uninteresting at best. Eleanor understood how fortunate she was to have her work at the Conservatory, but even there she wasn’t truly herself. Her art was playing music, not teaching.

  Eleanor enjoyed the annual Conservatory Faculty Recital, as she was always one of the few invited to play more than one piece. In those first years after graduation she traveled the city to various auditions. Mrs. Thurber encouraged her to go, and gave her personal letters of introduction and endorsement to give to each company and orchestra director, yet no one ever hired her. Again and again Eleanor saw her former classmates and colleagues, always men, almost invariably white men whose talents did not come close to matching hers, succeed. While Eleanor walked to the homes of her pupils in the worst weather to save a few cents, and endured the humiliation of each failed audition, her musical counterparts secured positions and acclaim and professional ascension of every kind.

  Still and
all, life in New York City had a lot to offer. Friday and Saturday nights, Eleanor went with Alma and other friends to parties, and dance halls on occasions when she could spare the money, where a new music called Ragtime had exploded onto the scene. And music was not the only thing in the air. Folks talked, debated the essays of W.E.B. Du Bois and Booker T. Washington, and articles in Negro papers like the New York Age. They discussed what must be done against the violence and poverty that afflicted them all, especially, almost unspeakably, those in the Southern States. A great deal was said about the advancement of the race, advancement in opportunity, in achievement, in equality. Over and again Eleanor felt as if she were waking up to the world, and to her own place in it, however lost or found that might turn out to be.

  In her daily life Eleanor flew from one place to another. She could almost always keep ahead of the loneliness that trailed her like a shadow. She missed her family, her home, and her mother. Jeannette Thurber once said to her at tea that loneliness was like malaria. Once infected you are never entirely free of it. You have your spells. But back to her home was where she could not go, because now there was another. A little boy to whom she had given life and a name, but not given herself. She had violated a sacred contract that she had never meant to sign, and could never undo, slashed a wound that nature couldn’t heal.

  When she stopped long enough she wrote letters to Papa, to Auntie, to Melody and the others. She asked after Gerard. Tilly had another child now and so he was one of three. Eleanor was relieved to hear from Melody that Tilly cared for him, that Melody herself often helped with the children and that Gerard was a fine little fellow. And that Jonty and Dax took him out riding whenever Jonty was home off duty from the railroad. The first year after Eleanor had graduated from the Conservatory, Melody wrote letter after letter asking when she would return to Montreal. “There is no talk whatsoever,” she assured her sister. Orphans were a dime a dozen, really; it was the rare family that didn’t at some point take in a parentless child. Eleanor sometimes replied “next year” to Melody’s queries. It was a decision she deferred, especially while life continued to unfold in New York. But any time she saw a little boy Gerard’s age, one of her private pupils perhaps, the sight stabbed at her heart with steady insistence.