Faltering

by Jennifer Lyndon

  Faltering

  By

  Jennifer Lyndon

  Faltering

  By Jennifer Lyndon

  Copyright © Jennifer Lyndon 2017. All Right Reserved.

  Cover photograph provided by Shutterstock.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For K.T.

  Thank you for showing me how amazing life can be, and becoming the meaning I’ve always sought, but never really knew existed. You redeemed the years of darkness I lived before you. I love you with all of me, and offer all of my love, for all time.

  J.L.

  -CH 1-

  November, 1968-Sylvie is eighteen years old

  The day I started work at the Lacoste household was a particularly memorable one for me, because that day I broke a promise to myself. There were only three promises I’d made myself so far in my unformed life, and all were based on observations of what went wrong for those around me, Mamma in particular. I listed them in my head in reverse order of importance. First off, I’d never work as a maid, second, I’d never sleep with someone I’d not yet married, and third, when I finally got us out of the south, I’d never return. That morning marked the first time I’d broken one of those promises, though certainly not the last. It was that initial crack in the rock hard foundation of my self-image, and I was barely an adult. I justified the decision, of course, saying it was only temporary, but for better or worse, I became Lara’s maid that day. Little did I know but that I’d made a life altering decision.

  Most people I knew, neighbors and relatives, saw my shift into domestic work as a natural progression toward my predetermined station in life. After all, Mamma had tended the Elgin home for as long as I could remember, and Grandmamma had also been a maid. Aside from my light coloring, a trait that made finding employment as a maid decidedly more difficult in the rural south, I was clearly fated to life as a domestic. I’d grown up following Lara around, fascinated with her untamed nature, and bright hazel eyes. So, anyone would ask, why the aversion to working for her? Well, it was the principle of the matter, I suppose.

  Still, despite my capitulation to what others may have viewed my destiny, I had no intention of remaining a maid. I was enrolled in the nursing school up in Shreveport, and doing very well in my classes I might add. Even with Mamma’s help I was having a hard time paying my way, though. I gave a pittance for room and board to stay with my Aunt Audrey during the week while I was in school, and rode the Trailways bus home most weekends to be with Mamma. Still, the costs were too high. That’s why I took that job cleaning Lara’s house every Saturday. I was determined to get through nursing school. I would make something of myself if it killed me. My mother had worked herself half to death to allow me to finish high school, and spent every penny she could lay her hands on for my tuition to nursing school. I owed it to her to make it through, and to get us away from that backwater southern state.

  I wanted to head north, or west, or anywhere that wasn’t Natchitoches, Louisiana. Lara had no way of knowing my plans, or my revolutionary ideas of self-worth. She saw me simply as the little girl who grew up running through the many rooms of her home. I had become the woman she chose to help her keep up her home. It was a really good job, and I should have realized how lucky I was to work for someone like her, someone kind and generous. All I can remember feeling that morning was a mingling of resentment, self-loathing, and shame.

  I always worshipped Lara, it’s true, and except for the events of that one strange day before she left for boarding school, she never really paid me much mind. As far I could tell, when she looked at me all she saw was that odd looking little kid that followed her around her house, waiting for my mamma to finish her work, while hiding from Lara’s spiteful little brother Bobby, and just doing my best to stay out of everyone’s way. Mostly, I helped out around the house, to pass the time. Until I was a sixteen Mamma never allowed me to stay home by myself, because she felt a girl my age, at home alone, could only find trouble. As a result, I endured countless solitary hours in that massive mausoleum of a home, dreamily awaiting a future which I was certain would take me far away from that speck of a town.

  I remember helping Mamma wash Lara’s clothing, fantasizing about one day having dresses as beautiful and delicate. In my imagination I wore ribbons in my hair, which had magically transformed into straight, golden blond, locks. On my manicured fingers I pictured beautiful jewels in every color. The materials Lara’s clothes were made of were so different from mine, soft and delicate, as opposed to stiff and sturdy. It was quite a stretch for me to believe such an outcome possible, but I didn’t know that yet. Reality was still unimportant to my childish worldview.

  In hindsight, my circumstances were cruel, a too light, mixed-blood Creole bastard, growing up in a shotgun shack in the rural Deep South. Though I didn’t want to accept it, my blood and the situation surrounding my birth marked me, making it absurd to imagine that I would ever approach Lara as anything close to an equal. Before I was old enough to grasp who I was, I wistfully pondered her jewelry and shoes, beautiful dresses, and countless hair ribbons in every pastel color. My own shoes were disastrous, hideous old brownish boxes made of hard leather, the soles long since scuffed through in several places, heels reinforced with metal. They once belonged to my cousin Tammy, and probably her older sister Bertha too, and maybe another cousin on their side of the family, before they ever found their tired worn out way onto my feet. Lara had countless pairs of shoes, in every soft style imaginable. Hardly any of them ever looked worn. I spent many summer mornings alone in her room, longingly picturing my knotty, boney, feet in her delicate shoes, until that day she gave me a pair.

  These were my thoughts as I walked down the long cobbled drive to the backdoor of her enormous white plantation home that morning, all those years later. I was remembering my skinny feet in her ill-fitting shoes, and laughing quietly to myself at the little Cane River Creole girl I had been, the foolish creature who believed such ambitions as mine possible in this world. That I should grow up to become her maid, that was to be expected, walking in her shoes was not. But when I look back now, that morning is not a shameful one, but one I celebrate in my mind. It was the first time I encountered Lara after her sudden departure from Natchitoches, almost six years earlier, to attend boarding school. When she opened that door to me, wearing an elegant moss green dressing gown, stretched tight across her pregnant belly, her creamy skin reflecting the peach glow of the morning sun, I was overwhelmed by her gentle elegance, and the warmth in her sharp hazel eyes. She wore her pale blond hair, the color of moonlight, twisted back in a bun. A few locks of her hair had fallen loose around her face. She smiled with uninhibited affection and swung the door wide in welcome, offering a full view of her round belly.

  “Let me catch my breath, honey,” she said wistfully. “Sylvie Honore, all grown up, and a graceful sight too. I bet you get a lot of exercise running from all the boys chasing after you.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek almost making me jump right out of my skin. “You bring back such sweet memories. But why’d you come all the way to the backdoor? I only just happened to be in here. I mightn’t have heard your knock,” she chattered quickly, obviously excited to see me again. She smiled and allowed her eyes to trail up and down the length of me in a slow appraisal. “I truly can’t believe you’re here.” She stood aside and allowed me to pass into her kitchen. “How’s your mamma doing? It seems forever since I last set eyes on Hattie.”

  “Mamma’s fine,” I answered. “And I don’t mind using the backdoor, Mrs. Lacoste,” I added firmly.r />
  “Mrs. Lacoste? You did not just call me that, Sylvie.” She chuckled. “Since I don’t see my mother-in-law here, and thank the lord for that, there’s no need for us to mention her. Let’s don’t call up the devil now.” She grinned wickedly and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I mean, really, honey, I’m hardly more than three years older than you. And I’ve known you since you were an itty bitty thing.” I nodded, a stiff uneasy gesture, as my neck and shoulders were stiff. “You’ve always called me Lara.” I forced a smile to conceal nervous tension.

  It had not been easy finding a position. I was untrained and over educated, and could only work two days a week, not to mention with my light skin, I didn’t look right. In her prep talk, when Mamma explained she’d secured me the job as Lara’s maid, she warned me not to be familiar, to always keep a safe distance. I assumed at the time she was referring to my behavior toward Mr. Lacoste, not Lara, and assured her she had nothing to worry about on that count. Mamma went on to explain how, in her experience, if you let your guard down with rich folks you wind up their plaything. And then it’s only a matter of time before you’re broken and discarded. Mamma said the people we work for don’t value their toys because they can always afford to buy new ones. Mamma’s tone when she spoke, and the way she diverted her eyes, told me plainly, she was speaking from personal experience. The hairs on the back of my neck stood as I wondered if she finally was about to tell me about my daddy. And I think she might have, but then the phone rang, and she stopped talking, petted me lightly on the cheek, and went to answer it.

  On my way out the door that morning, Mamma told me I was a good girl, and that I would be fine. I was left wondering if she would ever tell me what had happened to her, and how she wound up turned out by her family, and saddled with me. As Lara was delicately assaulting my tightly held barriers, I watched her warily, realizing full well, even then, that she was the danger of which Mamma cautioned. Maybe Mamma had been unaware of it when she was giving her warning, but I grasped on a gut level, that if I knew what was good for me, I would keep clear of Lara.

  “Come on in, Sylvie, and get settled. Then I’ll show you around this big old creepy house. I wouldn’t want to lose you in it so soon after finding you again.” Lara laughed lightly and reached a hand out to catch my arm, guiding me over to the table. “You want some coffee, honey?” I shook my head.

  “I don’t drink coffee, ma’am,” I answered defensively. She shook her head.

  “Lord, how ancient you just made me feel, Sylvie.” She pointed a delicate finger out at me. “Don’t you call me ma’am again, all right. Just plain Lara. I won’t answer to anything else,” she insisted. I nodded, thinking maybe this job was a mistake and wondering if Mamma could find me another house to clean, one with a less welcoming mistress. “How about tea? You drink tea, don’t you? You have got to consume something if you’re going to keep me company while I have my morning coffee. There’s some banana nut bread in the icebox. Have a slice.”

  “I’ll have tea,” I acquiesced, nodding as a nervous feeling took root in my gut.

  ****

  I had been working in the Lacoste house for about a year and a half, though I still refused to call her by her given name, or really even speak to her beyond what was required to competently execute my duties. My entire focus was on finishing nursing school. Connections, friendships, they were meaningless obstacles in my path. Regardless of my efforts, Lara was affectionate with me, and apparently untroubled by my painstaking displays of indifference. Against my will we shared lunch every Saturday and Sunday. Apparently, it was part of the job description that I sit with her and eat some of the food we prepared together. After an initial disinclination to indulge her, I realized it was no hardship sitting with her. Lara spoke more than enough during those lunches so I never really had to offer much. More days than not, she even helped out with the work in that big old house, shortening my workday significantly, but never decreasing my pay. Over time I had to concentrate more and more on not liking her, and keeping my barriers in place. The last thing I wanted was to develop an attachment to that spoiled woman, more of an overgrown child than an adult. God forbid I should actually enjoy working for her.

  Despite her efforts, I managed to maintain my distance with her until just before graduation from nursing school, the week before my last series of exams. I studied obsessively for my finals and so stayed overnight with my aunt, only arriving by bus that morning for work. My mind was still occupied with the material I was to be tested on in the coming week, when I arrived to work. It was strange that I had to employ my unused key to enter the house. Though it had never happened before, I hardly noted it, so distracted was I. Lara usually met me at the backdoor with a warm cup of tea and some baked delicacy, such as pumpkin bread muffins, or forgotten cookies. The only time, before that day, when she’d not been at home awaiting my arrival, she had specifically told me in advance and left a note for me on the kitchen table. When I opened the door I was met with silence. I found it slightly disconcerting, but I was uncertain why. Easily brushing the strangeness of the morning aside, I set myself to work.

  I began cleaning the kitchen, noting it was far more cluttered than usual. There were cups and dishes out haphazardly peppering the counters. Half-eaten food encrusted everything, as if dishes had been forgotten, for days, possibly even a week. I filled the sink with warm soapy water, so I could soak the hardened food from the dishes. As I was gathering the plates for soaking I noticed that those casserole dishes were unfamiliar, mismatched cookware, and shiny white Pyroceram glass containers. I froze when I recognized one of the containers, the pale olive colored one, with a chip on the lip. I knew the container well. That one belonged to my mamma. As awareness dawned, immediately I knew what Mamma had cooked, the dish she always prepared when something horrible happened to someone she cared for, sweet potato casserole.

  The many missed and unreturned calls over the past several days, and Mamma’s cryptic request that I stop by home before heading to work, flashed through my mind. My heart started pounding in my chest. Abandoning the dishes, I rushed to check the icebox for confirmation. There were pies, and too many casseroles, cookies and breads, all those unmistakable tributes to tragedy. I closed the icebox and wandered into the dining room. An assortment of unopened cards stretched across Lara’s massive, cherry wood, dining table and several potted plants were sitting on the floor, dying from lack of water and sunlight. That was enough confirmation for me.

  I hurried through the house, no longer searching for clues, taking the stairs two at a time. When I reached her bedroom, the door was closed. I stood outside for a few minutes, listening for the sounds of sleep, or any hint someone was inside. Finally, I tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer, so I quietly turned the knob and peeked into her room. Inside was dark, the curtains drawn. As my eyes adjusted, I barely made out her too slender form. Suddenly, dread took hold in the depth of my stomach. Lara had been pregnant the last time I saw her. As she lay under the covers of her bed, she shifted slightly, offering a view of her slim girth. I took a step back, deciding not to intrude, to let her sleep.

  “Sylvie.” Her voice halted me. I turned back around.

  “I… I’m sorry I woke you, Lara,” I stammered. “I… I just needed to check you’re all right.” I waited for her to say something, anything to indicate what I should do for her. I felt helpless. “May I bring you something?” I asked. I watched her shift slightly under the covers.

  “It’s not necessary,” was her reply.

  “Are you hungry? Can I fix you a plate of food?”

  “No, Sylvie. Please don’t. Everyone seems to think I need food.” She sighed. “Food will not fill this.”

  “Can I do anything at all for you?” I asked quietly. My question was met with silence. I started to feel awkward as I waited for an answer, or more likely, a dismissal. “Lara?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Actually, there is something you could do, if you don’t mind.
”

  I waited for her to ask, but she just kept watching me. Slowly, I approached her bedside, expectant. When I was near her, she reached a delicate hand out seizing mine in a gentle grasp. I looked down to see her face, ragged with grief, her eyes swollen and red, her hair a tangled mess. Her grip on my hand tightened as she scooted back from the edge of the bed to make room for me. She pulled the covers back and I sat down beside her.

  “Will you stay with me?” she asked softly. “Just until I fall to sleep. I haven’t slept in so long. When I close my eyes, all I see is blood, so red and, and so much of it... I’ll never lose that sight.”

  “I’ll stay,” I forced my voice across the lump that suddenly formed in my throat. Obviously she had lost her child. I swore at myself inside my head. Why hadn’t I taken five minutes to return Mamma’s calls?

  “Take off your shoes, Sylvie.”

  I slipped my feet out of my shoes before gathering my legs up on her bed. She provided me ample room. I turned over to face her, to tell her how sorry I was, but found I couldn’t speak. I kept thinking of the wistful expression she wore whenever she referred to the arrival of her child, or how she would cradle her belly absently, during those quiet moments when she was still. Unexpectedly, those memories brought searing pain to my chest. Without noting the tears filling my eyes, Lara reclaimed my hand and turned over, enfolding herself in my arms. I stiffened at first, but she felt so soft, limp even, like a rag doll. I tightened my arms around her and she sighed softly. Not long after, I recognized the constant breathing sounds of sleep. I didn’t dare move for fear she’d wake. She needed sleep. I must have been more tired from my studies than I realized, because I fell asleep too, holding Lara tightly in my arms.

  ****

  After my last exam at school I gave my two weeks notice. Lara was clearly distressed that I was leaving, but also gratified for me that I was graduating. It produced a strange sort of emotional climate when I was with her, a sort of intensity to which I wasn’t accustomed. She touched me more often, and reached for my hand sometimes. At first I thought she was being false with me, but there was no malice in her behavior. She asked if she might attend my graduation. I didn’t even want Mamma to go, because of the long bus ride. I hadn’t really had time to make friends, studying most the time when I wasn’t in class, and working the rest. I realized that Lara was the only person besides my mamma who actually cared that I was graduating. In the end, it was Lara who drove Mamma to Shreveport to attend the ceremony, saving Mamma from that long bus ride. Afterward, Lara presented me with a beautiful white gold pin, a butterfly, with amethysts on its wings. It was the most beautiful gift anyone had ever given me. Mamma, who had watched as I opened the delicately wrapped little box, was speechless.