House of Rougeaux

by Jenny Jaeckel

Alma lifted her stricken face and Eleanor feared the worst. Alma stumbled forward and clutched at her, her awful wail filling the air around them.

  “What’s happened, tell me, please,” Eleanor begged.

  “He’s alive,” Alma managed at last. She was shaking so badly her teeth chattered. “They beat him bad.” His face was a mess, broken ribs. “And they…” here the keening sobs overtook her again. “They, they stomped his hands. Oh Lord!” The cry tore itself raw from her throat. “They broke up his hands.”

  * * *

  Jack was discharged in two days’ time and they took him to the hotel, where Alma stayed by his side, administering ice and iodine, and begging him to accept the bone broth that Eleanor asked for in the kitchen. The police said there was nothing they could do, as the attackers had run off so fast. The doctor said Jack would recover the use of his hands, but never again would he have the dexterity that made his art possible.

  Boisterous Jack lay in bed, silent as death, staring at the plasters covering his hands. Only when he slept did he make a sound, and these were the low moans that belied his pain. On the third day he said something.

  Eleanor had come with Lemuel. She had made Alma go up to the room Eleanor shared with Della to get some rest herself. Eleanor held a bowl of broth with some bread soaking in it, and Lemuel stood with his gloves in one hand, nattering on about a new arrangement they would try with the strings. Jack cut him off.

  “I wish they hadda killed me,” he said softly.

  “Jack, no,” Eleanor whispered.

  Lemuel brought a hand to his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, turning away.

  Jack shifted and turned his face toward the wall.

  “Sister, let me be now, please.”

  Eleanor rose, terrified. She looked over at Lemuel, who had sunk into a chair.

  * * *

  She returned that evening to see what could be done. Alma met her at the door. Her face was drawn with exhaustion and there was a new light of fear in her eyes.

  “He won’t take anything. Not even water.” she said.

  Jack lay motionless in the bed, turned still toward the wall. Whether he slept or not Eleanor couldn’t tell. The curtains were drawn but the window was open a crack, letting in a little air and noise from the street, and enough light to see. She stepped past Alma and began to gather the used linens and discarded bandages from beside the bed and heaped them in the corner.

  There came a knock at the door. Alma went to see. Eleanor expected her to send whomever it was away, but instead she stood back and several figures filed into the room. First Joop, and Lemuel, and then a handful of men and women Eleanor recognized as some of the esteemed lecturers and West Indian leaders, delegates from the Pan-African Conference, and then, to her greater shock, the refined, angular features of Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois himself.

  Hearing all of this Jack roused and took in the unexpected sight. He struggled to sit up and Alma went to help him. Mr. Henry Sylvester Williams, the barrister from Trinidad, spoke first.

  “Brother,” he said, “we have heard of the attack, and we have come to speak with you, if you are willing.”

  They all waited, and Jack nodded.

  “The crime you have suffered,” Williams went on, “is nothing less than what our people have suffered for hundreds of years, and make no mistake, we grieve with you. This is precisely why we all are here in this city, and we are here to offer you any support that we may.”

  Sam Jupiter spoke next.

  “Jack, we want you to continue the tour with us. As conductor.”

  “You have a conductor,” Jack said, his voice hoarse from three days of silence, and all he had endured. He looked over at Lemuel.

  “I’m stepping down,” Lemuel said. “I’m going back to the States. Already packed.”

  Jack was quiet, and then said with a bitter finality, “I don’t want no pity.”

  “Pity.” A voice of great clarity came from the group, and Dr. Du Bois stepped forward. He sat in the chair alongside the bed and locked eyes with Jack. “Pity is not what we are about.”

  A hush filled the room, much different than before, a silence heavy with expectation.

  “How many of us have been maimed, brutalized, murdered?” Du Bois said, echoing Williams’ sentiments. “Countless numbers. You know that as well as I do. Every one of us here knows it, far too well.”

  Jack stared at him. Tears welled up and spilled over.

  “All I ever wanted to do was play,” he said. “My whole life. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “Music is your great gift,” said the Doctor, unblinking. “It’s your soul. And that doesn’t depend on the body. Other bodies will play for you, if need be.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Zebulon, we need you,” he said, “your colleagues, your friends, your people. We need you. We can’t afford to lose you.”

  “It would be a great honor to have your company play in my country,” Barrister Williams said. “If you come we will show you the spirit of the Trinidadian people. And you will show us yours. And we will all be uplifted.”

  When the unofficial delegation took its leave, Eleanor and Hig slipped out after them and he went with her to her own door. There was nothing but nothing left to say. Hig wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into him, letting herself be held for the first time in so very long.

  * * *

  Joop held a meeting of the company the next day in the large, empty theater they would play in that night. Jack was present, bandages and all, with Alma on one side and Eleanor on the other.

  “You all know as well as I do that there ain’t nothing I can say that will make this any better.” He looked at the ceiling, as if some kind of useful words might show up anyway.

  “Those dogs that pass for men can rot in Hell for what they did,” Della said, and many in the company called out their agreement.

  “We all feel like that, Della,” Hig said, “but we’ve got to look ahead to what happens next. Let’s hear what Joop has to say.”

  Joop paced back and forth in front of them. He worried his hand over his forehead. “For all that things are going good over here, we can’t get too comfortable. Everyone should be on their guard. We can’t let this happen again.”

  Eleanor put her handkerchief to her face, but there were too many tears for it. The ugliest truth was that Jack would most likely never play the way he did before. In an instant, those men had stripped him of everything most dear. It could have happened to any one of them.

  “But I will tell you one thing.” Joop’s voice wavered but his words rang like a clock striking the hour. “I have never been so proud of anything as I am of all of you. You have made me proud and you have made Dr. Du Bois proud. What we’re doing is important, and nothing’s going to stop us.”

  The company voiced their support and Lemuel went to Joop’s side, putting an arm around his shoulders.

  Joop held his hands up to quiet things down.

  “Now I need to tell you that our conductor will be leaving us. He’ll be sorely missed.” Gasps and murmurs filled the room. “Lemuel, why don’t you say your piece.”

  Lemuel stayed quiet a moment before speaking. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to go.” He shook his head back and forth. “I could tell you that I got a better offer, but there’s no way there’s a better offer anywhere. Most of you know I’m a believer. My Creator tells me to go home now, and I’ll abide by that. I feel the same as Joop. My work with you all is the proudest I’ve ever done. I do thank you.”

  “In light of things,” Joop said to the group, “I hope you will join us in supporting our new conductor.” He lifted a hand toward Jack, and Jack, leaning heavily on a cane, stood up. It would take him months to fully recover, but he stood there on his feet.

  One by one each member of the Frangipani Orchestra stood up too, and gathered close around Jack in a circle, arms laid over shoulders. Someone started to sing and everyone joined in.

  Stand still Jordan<
br />
  Stand still Jordan

  Stand still Jordan

  Lord I can’t stand still

  Together they would do the impossible.

  * * *

  In the coming months Eleanor witnessed Jack grow into the role of conductor with dignity and determination. If before he was a touch vain, thriving on glory, now he moved with an inner strength. If he didn’t laugh as much as he used to, now when he spoke he always meant what he said. The group became his instrument, the place he applied his art. He demanded the best in them, and found ways to challenge them so that the company reached new heights. And when there was praise he refused the credit. Eleanor saw changes in Alma too, and in Alma and Jack as a couple. She saw true devotion. These rivers ran deep.

  And there was another thing that was new. Hig had a talk with Della and told her that while he cherished her friendship, his heart was set on another. He asked Eleanor if she wouldn’t mind his company at supper, on walks, during their evenings off. They sat together on the long train rides, and she slept with her head on his shoulder.

  Near the end of the tour, as the year 1900 drew toward its end, the Frangipani Orchestra received its official invitation to Trinidad. The journey would include passage and accommodations, eight public concerts, tours of the island, exchanges with native musicians and meetings with schoolchildren and teachers. And even though the Orchestra was not a democratic outfit, as Joop always said, the company voted unanimously to accept the offer. They would return to New York briefly, reunite with their families as they were able, and then sail again—this time to the Caribbean, and a whole new adventure.

  * * *

  In March of 1901, the company sailed from New York to Florida and then on to Trinidad, landing at Port of Spain. Amid the crowds on the busy pier Eleanor happened to see a notice board with listings of steamboats that took passengers to the islands to the north. There was one the next day to the island of Martinique, where her grandmother was born. Mémé Hetty, to whom she owed her life in music, who came from a place farther away than anything she could have imagined when she was just a baby watching her brother Albert at his lessons.

  She knew at once she would go.

  The company had several days before their first Trinidadian engagements so it would cause no trouble to take a short side trip.

  “I’ll go with you,” Hig said, when she told him.

  “No, Hig, I think I’ll go alone,” she said. They were both surprised when she said it. In truth there had been very few times she had made any journey by herself, though each of those had marked a moment of great change in her life.

  Hig frowned. Eleanor guessed what he was thinking. “I’ll be safe,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  “I shouldn’t let you,” he said, but not with anger.

  Only twice had she ever seen him angry. When Jack suffered the attack, and later when she confessed to him her secret, about Gerard, the child. He was furious that Professor Batiste had taken advantage of her–that was his view–a defenseless young girl. Both of these things broke his heart, he said, but what made it alright in the end was that both she and Jack lived on and thrived.

  “Hell, Nora,” he’d said. They were walking at the time, on a terrace of the basilica in Marseille, one of the last cities on the company’s tour. He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly and then turned toward her. “I’m glad you told me. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.” He held both her hands in his and kissed them. “I want to make my life with you,” he said. “When you say so, we’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Eleanor stood on the deck of the steamer, wind whipping at her face and the ends of the scarf she had used to secure her hat. The steamer had left Trinidad behind and now there was no land in sight. Albert used to say that when he was grown he would visit Mémé’s island, but he had never had the chance. He married Genevieve and the babies started coming. The closest he ever got was to name one of his children after it, because Mémé had taught him that Martinique was so beautiful.

  Eleanor disembarked at the town of Fort-de-France and found her way down the pier, a bit shaky from the journey over the open sea in a smaller vessel than she was used to. She headed toward a cluster of buildings near the beach, flanked by waving palms, where she found what looked like a café. It was mid-morning and the heat was stifling. She wished for nothing more than some shade and a cool drink. Stepping through the doorway she found the place empty, save for a young man busy scrubbing something behind a whitewashed counter.

  “Bonjour,” Eleanor said, slumping into a chair. Really she was feeling dizzy, perhaps she had gotten a little seasick.

  “Bonjour Madame,” said the young man, approaching. She asked for something to drink and he disappeared through a small door out the back. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The young man returned with an earthen pitcher and a glass, but when she tried to speak she was overcome by a swallowing darkness full of tiny dancing lights.

  The next thing she knew she was stretched out on a bench in a shady courtyard. The young man was fanning her with a tea towel, and a matronly woman bent over her, patting at Eleanor’s cheeks with her hands. When Eleanor roused, the woman helped her to sit up. She told her in a French dialect that she must change clothes. Eleanor gathered that she wasn’t the first person in Victorian dress to faint in this woman’s presence, and accepted her assistance into a small room off the courtyard, without argument.

  The older woman, dressed in the typical Caribbean style Eleanor had glimpsed in Trinidad, rummaged in a trunk and pulled out a white linen gown and a blue shawl. With the authority that a mother holds over a small, misbehaving child, she quickly separated Eleanor from the layers of her clothes and helped her to unlace her corset. The rush of blood freed from its bindings caused her to feel lightheaded again and she sat down on the trunk, naked now except for her chemise and drawers. Then she lifted her arms and allowed the woman to slip the linen dress over her head. A moment later she was back on the bench in the courtyard, with a glass of coconut water.

  The matron was called Marbeille; the young man, Abel, was one of her sons. The café belonged to her family and was, as Eleanor would learn in the next few hours, one of their many enterprises. Did Eleanor need a place to stay? They had two rooms they rented to guests.

  “So,” Marbeille said to her, once Eleanor was installed in a small, comfortable room on the other side of the courtyard and finally much revived, “are you a daughter of the Island?” Eleanor told her that she had come from America, and that her grandmother was born on the island. That she grew up on a sugar estate called Mont Belcourt. She had heard Mémé speak now and then about her childhood, but in truth Eleanor had learned very little. What was it Mémé used to say about her elders? She had an aunt who healed the sick. The name came back to her now, emerging suddenly from some long-forgotten place.

  “Mémé Abeje?” Eleanor asked aloud. Could that be right? Why would she have referred to her aunt as Mémé? As a grandmother?

  Marbeille’s eyes widened in recognition and surprise. “You are a p’tit of Mémé Abeje?”

  “The granddaughter of her niece,” Eleanor said. “Do you know that name?”

  “Everyone knows that name, child.”

  * * *

  Early in the afternoon the café filled with diners, locals stopping to eat amid the labors of the day, and all manner of people coming in from fishing and passenger boats, or who otherwise did business in the busy port town. Several more of Marbeille’s grown children had shown up and were at work with her in the outdoor kitchen that occupied one side of the courtyard. They brought out large plates of cassava cakes, a spicy bean and vegetable stew, and fried fish with plantains. Marbeille greeted patron after patron with the news that, by some miracle, a p’tit of Mémé Abeje was here with them from America. Most everyone knew one story or another about the legendary Obeah, the great healer, and they were eager to tell Eleanor what they knew. One man, who alternated p
ulls on a pipe with spoonfuls of stew, said to Marbeille, “Old Silas still lives. Perhaps she should go to see him.”

  Eleanor struggled to keep up with the stories. Creole was so very different from the French she knew. It was a revelation that an ancestor of hers was known here, since it was not likely there was anyone who could have remembered Hetty, who had left the island as a girl. Silas was Mémé Abeje’s last apprentice, a quimboiseur, the man with the pipe had said. He lived in a village not so far from his own, and was known for his healing abilities. He was quite old now, though, and did not work so much anymore.

  “My wife has business that way tomorrow,” said the man with the pipe. “I know she would not mind the company.”

  * * *

  Eleanor spent much of the later afternoon and evening at the beach, in an area of shade afforded by a stretch of dense foliage. She had brought with her a thin sheaf of paper and a fountain pen she had purchased in Paris, intending to write a letter home to her family in Montreal, but these remained tucked away in her handbag. Once she touched the sand, she began to take in the immensity of sea and sky. She let her ears attune to the rush of the surf and her hands stayed still, folded together in repose. The murmur of the waves and distant cry of an occasional gull were very welcome.

  She remembered Auntie Josephine’s words, said one night when Eleanor was a girl, some time after they had lost Mama. Eleanor and Melody were in the kitchen after supper washing dishes in basins of soapy water, when a plate slipped from Eleanor’s grasp and shattered on the floor. It was only a bit of crockery, but at that moment it seemed the most terrible thing in all the world. She crouched on the floor, weeping inconsolably, and Auntie came and put her arms around her.

  “Lay it down,” Auntie said, of all the burden Eleanor carried in her heart. “Lay it down.”

  She heard Auntie’s voice now, speaking to her of the weight of the past.