“I suppose, but they keep making them pictures,” Dr. Landry replied, putting a hand on his chest as if he might burp.
“I guess it helps people with their troubles, to watch a picture and escape from their own reality for a while,” said Lydia.
The professor took a swallow of whiskey. “Do you like the pictures, Mrs. Tyler?”
“I’ve only seen one or two. My daughters love them, of course. I’m a relic, still thinking of the days when we had silent pictures and an organist to play the score.”
“Well, those days are over,” said Frances. “Now that we have talkies they need actresses to have beautiful speaking voices.” She turned toward Dr. Landry. “I’ve been told I have a beautiful voice.”
Dr. Landry turned a deeper shade of ruddy and glanced at the professor. “I suppose so.”
Frances cocked her head, looking at Lydia. “Doctor Landry’s promised to introduce me to his brother. See about getting me into a picture. I’ve been imagining it in my mind most every minute of the day since we talked last week.”
“But now, Mrs. Fye, I didn’t say he’d get you in a picture, just that I’d introduce you to him. I don’t actually know that he makes those kinds of decisions.” He spread butter on a biscuit and demolished half of it in one bite.
“But he helps run the studio, doesn’t he?” Frances’s face lost its rosy flush. Her hand shook when she took a sip of sherry. “Isn’t that what you said?”
The professor sighed and spoke slowly, as if measuring his words, “Frances, Doctor Landry doesn’t want you to set your expectations too high.”
“But you said that he could do something for me.”
“Frances, there’s no need to get upset,” said the professor. “I didn’t remember you had a brother, Doctor Landry.”
“Hadn’t seen him for years when he showed up out of nowhere a couple weeks ago. He left town after his mother died. We had different mothers, both dead now.”
Frances played with the stem of her glass. Her eyes glittered, focused on the professor. “The trouble with my husband, Lydia, is that he has no imagination. Isn’t that right, darlin’? He thinks of nothing but his music all day, every day.” She turned to Lydia in a conspiratorial wink. “Isn’t that just the way with men? They think of nothing but themselves and let their poor wives wither on the vine.”
Dr. Landry wiped his damp forehead with his napkin. “You’re hardly withering now, Mrs. Fye.”
Frances snapped her head up to look at the doctor. “Really? Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?”
Dr. Landry darted a look at the professor. “I simply mean, Mrs. Fye, that you’re a beautiful woman.”
Frances pushed away from the table. Her chair thumped against the wall. “What does it matter, if no one ever sees me? I’m condemned to this awful little town while my life passes me by.” With tears in her eyes and lips trembling, she paced between the chair and table like a scared, trapped mouse. “I’m supposed to be something, someone important.” Her voice was a high-pitched squeal that bordered on hysteria. “I can’t just disappear into nothingness. I’m meant to be admired.” She flopped back into her chair and buried her face in her hands, weeping.
Professor Fye went to her, kneeling by her chair and speaking softly. “Can’t we just have a nice dinner?”
She lifted a tear-stained face. “I’m simply exhausted. I think I’ll go to bed.”
He spoke soothingly to her. “That’s a good idea. This was too much excitement.” He looked at Lydia and then the doctor. “Excuse me for a moment.” He put his arm out to help his wife up, but she shrugged away, stumbling out of the room with him following.
From the other room Lydia heard him say, “You just need a nice rest, and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I won’t feel better, and it’s all your fault,” said Frances, in a loud, angry wail.
Dr. Landry buttered a second biscuit. “Quite a mess the good professor has here.” He popped a piece into his mouth and chewed, the flesh of his face moving like raw dough.
“Does this happen often, do you think?”
“Oh yeah. I got a colleague in Chicago, specializes in mental disorders. He says it sounds like she suffers from hysterical personality.”
“What is that?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“Attention seeking, over-sexed, high opinion of themselves based in fantasy, and overly sensitive to criticism. I could explain in detail, but what you saw tonight was as good as any textbook.”
“Can’t you do something to help her?”
The doctor chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “What did you have in mind? Send her away to one of those nerve centers?”
She stuttered, embarrassed about her naiveté, “I, I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s where they send women with her type of problem. But the professor won’t even consider it.”
“Do you know why?”
“Don’t ask me. Professor keeps to himself. I met him once, before he had the accident. He was extraordinary back then, from what my friend Walt tells me.”
“He’s extraordinary still.”
Landry spoke with a slight edge to his voice. “Yes, I’ve noticed how you seem to admire him.”
The pulse at her neck thumped at a furious pace. She heard a stirring near the doorway and turned to see the professor, his expression dark. Had he heard Dr. Landry?
“Mrs. Tyler, get your things, I’ll walk you back to campus.” Without looking at him, he spoke to Landry, “Doctor, I’ll let you show yourself out.”
The dusk air had cooled since afternoon but was still warm and muggy enough that she walked without putting on her jacket. Professor Fye was silent, his head bent toward the ground. They crossed the street to campus. A bullfrog croaked.
They rounded the corner. At her building, they stopped, lingering at the steps.
“Mrs. Tyler, I’m sorry about this evening. I should have said no when my wife suggested the dinner party, but it’s nearly impossible to discourage her once she has something in her mind.”
“Professor, could I have the favor of one small thing?”
“What is it?” His eyes were soft, searching her face.
“Call me Lydia.”
“Of course. Lydia.” He paused and cleared his throat. “And you call me Nathaniel. If you want.”
“Nathaniel.” She let the sound of his name dwell inside her for a moment.
The crickets chirped in the thicket. He sighed. “Life’s an endless loop, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Over and over, the same. Never any relief. Like Sisyphus with his boulder.” Neither spoke for a moment. And then, like a confession, his voice hushed, “She does this sometimes—violent outbursts that seem to come out of nowhere. She has an incessant need for male admiration.”
She didn’t respond, waiting to see if he would say more.
“She’s been sick for a long time now.”
“Surely something could be done to help her?” she asked.
“I don’t know what it would be.”
“This is no life for you.” She spoke gently, like she would to one of her daughters.
He turned to her. “My parents taught me that life is about duty. God, country, family. What would you have me do?”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. What was to be done for this man? Life was particularly cruel sometimes. One’s conduct, one’s intentions, seemed to matter little.
“Let’s meet tomorrow at my office. Say eleven o’clock?”
“Will have to be more like noon. I attend church in the morning.”
“Fine.”
“Good night, Nathaniel.”
“’Night, Lydia.”
They turned and walked in opposite directions. Strangely, she felt his eyes upon her even as she knew it was impossible to watch someone while walking away from them.
Chapter 37
Jeselle
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* * *
Jeselle had been in the Fyes’ kitchen, taking the roast out of the oven when she heard the music. She cocked her head, listening. Despite the heat, she got goose bumps and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. What was it about the music? And then she remembered. It was the music Nate had played the night of his accident. Gershwin. Tear drops in a bucket.
She peeped through the kitchen door. He and his student sat together at the piano. She blinked, unsure of what she saw. And then she understood. They were each playing one-handed, making it sound like a single player. Making it sound like Nate—like he used to play.
How she wished for Whitmore then.
Later, after she’d served the soup, she tossed a spoonful of flour into hot lard and whipped it together to start the gravy. She was just adding some water when she heard Frances’s voice, high pitched and loud. As she scraped drippings from the roaster into the pan, she heard Nate talking soothingly to Frances as he shuffled her past the kitchen door and up the stairs. A few minutes later Nate stopped by the kitchen. He looked at the roast resting on the fancy platter and the gravy already in the bowl and shook his head. “I’m going to walk Mrs. Tyler to campus, and then I’ll drive you to Bess’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waved his hand toward the food. “Take this with you.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.” He paused at the doorway. “Jes, sometimes I wish your mother or Mrs. Bellmont were here. They’d know what to do.”
“Me too, sir,” she said, fighting the lump her throat.
There was the sound of the front door opening and closing. Jeselle went into the dining room, anxious to have the cleanup done by the time Nate returned. Dr. Landry was still sitting there, helping himself to another biscuit. “Girl, wrap me up some of these here biscuits. You people sure know how to cook a biscuit.”
“Yes, sir.” She went to the kitchen. In a few minutes she came back into the dining room to give them to him, but he was not there. She looked for him in the sitting room and, sure enough, there he was, drinking more of Nate’s whiskey. He finished it in a gulp, took the biscuits, and went out the front door.
Later, Nate’s car, smelling of roasted meat and gravy, hummed along the country road. Dusk was a dusty purple. As they turned down Bess’s dirt road and came around the bend to the house, fireflies appeared. Nate stopped the car. “You want me to help bring in the food?”
“No. Probably not a good idea.”
“Jes, have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“No, sir.”
“You make sure and tell me if I can help you in any way. I know you don’t want Mrs. Bellmont to know about the baby, but I believe this—she would want what was best for you.”
Jeselle again felt the lump at the back of her throat that always seemed poised to choke her. “I know she would. That’s what makes my shame all the worse.” She reached for the door handle. “Mr. Nate?”
“Yes?”
“Mama and Mrs. Bellmont—they’d tell you to send Miss Frances away. If you told them how it really is.”
“I know.”
“They’d tell you this is no way to live.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that tonight.”
“You’re a good man. We all know that, too.”
With that, she scrambled from the car, afraid she might cry, and went into the house.
Bess sat in her rocking chair, nursing the baby. Ben whittled something from a piece of birch branch at the table. Through the doorway to the bedroom, she saw the children were already asleep.
“I brought a roast.”
“A roast?” said Ben.
“Mr. Fye sent it out. Their dinner party went awry.”
“A righ?” said Bess.
Amiss, Jeselle thought. Askew, aslant, ruined. “Miss Frances threw a fit. The guests had to go home.”
“And left all that food?” asked Ben.
The children, perhaps smelling the food in their sleep, wandered in, rubbing their eyes. “What is it?” Lizzie asked, pointing at the meat.
“A roast,” Jeselle told her. “A big one.”
Also, there were crisp potatoes and carrots and a dozen biscuits. They all sat around the table made from the side of a barn while Ben cut them all thick pieces of meat and covered them with gravy. The children gobbled like hungry puppies while the baby pitched forward like a bird to eat out of her mama’s hands.
“Tell us the story, Jes,” said Ben, stabbing a potato with his fork. “How did Christmas come to us in June?”
Jeselle told the parts they were interested in with great detail: Dr. Landry’s big stomach and how he managed to eat a half-dozen biscuits washed down with a decanter of whiskey, and the white lady who cried and fussed instead of eating a delicious slab of beef. She left out the bittersweet sound of the music and how warm the kitchen was as she pulled the roast out of the oven and Nate’s defeated eyes.
They all laughed and laughed at her story and ate until they lost their listless, hungry look. After they all had their fill, they put the rest in the icebox. Tomorrow there would be enough to eat. That’s about the best they could hope for these days.
Later, from her cot, Jeselle searched the sky for answers. The night was a beauty, fireflies fluttered about, and a million stars surrounded a slivered moon. She felt small under the blanket of that night, wondering if she even existed in a universe so vast.
Chapter 38
Nathaniel
* * *
Nathaniel sat in his office at the college, expecting Lydia. He often came in on Sunday mornings, mostly to get out of the house, to catch up on paperwork or practice without the sighs and questions from Frances. Lydia wouldn’t arrive for a few more minutes, but he couldn’t concentrate, out of anticipation. He occupied himself by sorting through correspondence and half-written compositions until they were disorganized enough that they must be resorted back into neat stacks. All the while, waiting. Waiting for Lydia.
The various church bells rang, all in successive notes of five; the Baptist bell that clanged like an empty tin bucket, and the Methodist bell, pitched high like the jingles on the side of a sled. Then he heard a floorboard creak and looked up, expecting to see Lydia.
But it was Whitmore standing in the open doorway. Shocked, Nathaniel jumped to his feet, knocking one of the stacks of paper onto the floor. “Whit!” The boy looked older than at the Christmas holiday, haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. Nathaniel grabbed him, hugging him in a tight embrace. The kid felt thin and smelled of sweat. “What’re you doing here?”
“I’ve come for a visit.”
Nathaniel looked at him in amazement. “A visit?” He motioned for Whitmore to sit. “How did you know I would be at my office?”
“I hoped, given you said you often are on a Sunday, and I wanted to see you before Frances knew I was here.”
Nathaniel sank into his desk chair. “How did you get here?”
“Train.” Whitmore’s skin looked gray.
“Are you sick?”
Whitmore closed his eyes and, despite looking worse than he had the moment before, said, “No.”
“Does your mother know where you are?”
“She thinks I’m in Cape Cod.” He visibly took a deep breath and looked Nathaniel straight in the eyes. “I’ve come to see Jeselle.”
“What?”
“Why is she here?” asked Whitmore.
Nathaniel watched him sharply, feeling a rising fear in the pit of his stomach. He kept his voice even. “Your sister’s worse. I needed help.”
Whitmore glared at him now. “Why Jeselle?”
He shrugged, thinking through what to say. “Because she knows us.” He crossed his arms over his chest, bracing himself for the answer to the question he had to ask. “Whit, why did you come to see her?”
“I needed to.” His eyes glistened with tears. “I love her.”
Nathaniel’s heart pounded in his c
hest. Holy God, he thought. It was Whit’s baby. “Whit, no.”
“I know what you think. But it’s her. No one but her.”
Nathaniel simply stared at him for a long moment. Whit fidgeted in his chair, tapping his foot on the floor. “Whit, what I think doesn’t matter. What you’re talking about is illegal. Whatever you feel must be kept a secret.”
“Why?” The boy continued to stare right back at him, almost belligerent in his stance, arms crossed and a challenging look in his eyes.
“Because it’s dangerous. It’s against the law, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not in the Northeast. You’re from Maine. I could take her there and marry her. It’s legal there.”
“Whit, it’s legal, but that doesn’t mean anyone does it. Not out in the open, anyway.” He paused, trying to discern if Whitmore followed what he said, but the boy’s expression was unyielding. “They don’t bother to change the law, because there’s no need—no white person would dare marry a colored person even if the law allows it, knowing they would surely come to harm if they did.”
Whitmore slumped over, hugging himself with his arms and rocking. “I haven’t heard from her since Christmas.”
He had to tell him. Nathaniel’s voice came out hoarse, shaky. “She’s going to have a baby.”
Whitmore’s gray face went white. “Oh, God.”
“Cassie sent her here so your mother and father wouldn’t guess the truth. It didn’t occur to me that it could be—the baby’s father, that is—that it could be you.”
“At Christmas, we—”
Nathaniel nodded, putting up his hand. “Yes, I understand.” He took in a breath, watching Whit closely. “Listen, Whit. Jeselle and Cassie intend to give the baby to a reverend and his wife back in Atlanta.”
Whitmore stared at him with a look of disbelief. “She’s agreed to give up the baby?”
He stuttered, “I, I think so.”
Whitmore shook his head. “No. Not Jes.”
“Whit, we could support her financially. You and me. Send her somewhere to live. But it must be kept quiet. As I’m sure you’re aware, many white men do this.”
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