In Search of Satisfaction

by J. California Cooper

  Thinking it being perhaps too early to try to see Mrs. Befoe, Yin decided to find the shack where the gold was. It was, in fact, uppermost in her mind. She took off in the direction she remembered Josephus telling her about.

  • • •

  on the same early morning, Mrs. Befoe lay in her bed thinking. She was feeling old and wondering where her life had gone. She didn’t ring for Minna, her maid, to bring her morning coffee right away. She just lay still. Her body felt like crying, but she hated people who were criers. Her mind kept repeating to itself, “I am alone.” Her mind began to go back over the past—all her life and what it had been.

  but now as she reminisced, a visitor was on the way.

  The foliage surrounding the old Befoe mansion was lush and deep with years of closely attended care. Moss and ivy were yet everywhere, hanging from trees, sheds, even from parts of the house. There were many communities of insects beneath all the green beauty at this time of year—living, birthing, dying of old age. Some can live a long time if left alone, not sprayed or, if lucky, not caught by some predator.

  In foliage very near the house was a young black widow spider—newly courted, newly loved and impregnated. She had just had a huge meal, her lover, and was sitting quietly on the earth. Before her ran a river of water from the drain spouts attached to the main house. Ahhh, she was so full. She was pregnant now, she knew. She should have been happy, but she already missed the closeness and attention of her lover. He had even brought her food while they courted. Well, he was gone now, and she must carry on alone, give birth to their brood alone.

  The spider looked beneath the brush around her, watching carefully lest something catch her and end the cycle that was started. She looked at the wet end of the drain pipe and, for no reason at all, she decided to climb into the dark, damp inside. She must find a place to birth her young. She liked the dark, damp dirt, but she was sleepy and wanted to be away from harm, so she climbed.

  She began the ascent, slowly, carefully, looking for natural enemies along her way. She could handle most, but a small spider a half-inch long had to be wary. She climbed straight up, zigzagged a bit, then straight up again. Past the first story of the house, she felt as though she had put in a full day’s work, and here it was all slimy, still dark and no nest to sit in and wait for the birth. Then, too, the babies must be fed. I have chosen badly, she thought to herself. She looked straight up, thinking, how far does this hole go? Ah, but there, up ahead, was a shaft of light shining into the darkness of the pipe. With renewed energy, she continued her almost content but still hesitant ascent up inside the drain pipe. Her concern was that what might be up there could destroy her and her young.

  When she reached the hole where the light shone, she crawled out, still cautious, through a rusty hole to the outdoors. She looked around carefully, thinking. Tall tree branches were there, no brush and just a ledge. Deciding to go on, she continued across the siding and up to the window ledge. The spider climbed to the glass. It was warm, ahhhhh. There were small chinks in the wood around the window and the paint was chipped. She darted anxiously into and out of the chinks, but the short tunnels ended before crossing over to the other side of the glass. In her excitement, she crossed over to the next window close by. Ahhh, this one was open, showing a huge tunnel. The plump black spider scurried in. Ah, oh! There was movement inside this space. A huge movement for something she had no name for, but she knew it could kill her. She froze. She did not realize she was black and easily seen in this white room with white curtains which moved softly in the breeze. Instinct moved her to a side corner of the wide ledge. She pressed herself into the darkness of the corner and, tired now, decided to wait, to watch awhile. To wait and to sleep. She was, she remembered, going to have babies. She must be quiet now.

  As the spider sat staring at her, Mrs. Carlene Befoe began her day.

  Old Mrs. Richard Befoe, Carlene, heard the sound of her maid quietly opening the bedroom door. The strong smell of her morning coffee filled the large bedroom in this huge, old house. As she had planned, there was no other sound to be heard. She had arranged that her daughter and grandchildren were in other, far parts of the house. Her son-in-law, Arthur, had long been gone. She did not like to think of her family until she was ready. Not to hear them was not to think of them.

  She watched as her maid set the tray down with the usual “mornin, mam” and opened wide the curtains and drapes at the windows. Rising slowly because of hip pains, she moved her plump legs and feet over the side of the bed and held her hand out for her morning robe, which was at the foot of her bed within her reach. The maid stopped what she was doing and, going to the bed, handed Mrs. Befoe her robe. There was no “good morning,” but the maid was used to that. Mrs. Befoe pointed to her desk by the windows overlooking the land surrounding her home. She wanted to have her coffee there. She liked to look at her possessions. She didn’t really see the true landscape; she just knew it was there.

  A sunrise or sunset was wasted on Mrs. Befoe. There were beautiful mountains, as mountains are always beautiful, off in the distance—purplish-gray with the sunlight catching glints of the green trees growing richly on the smooth, graceful shapes. She didn’t see them either. Of course, she didn’t own them, all of them, but a little, a little. She did like to look at the river flowing about a mile in the distance. She was always glad she had not allowed her father or her husband to let the railroads come through here. It might be inconvenient for her, but this way she did not have to deal with all those dreadful people who would have come, too.

  This morning the river was sparkling with the fire of the sun-filled morning. She did not see that either. She just knew it was there.

  Without looking at her maid, she spoke in a low, steely voice, “Where is my cane? That damned thing is always disappearing.” The maid found the cane for her. Mrs. Befoe did not say “thank you.” She continued in her crochety voice. “You did not check with me to see if I would want anything different.”

  The maid blinked with surprise and her eyes opened wide. “You never, in all the years I been here, want anything different, mam.”

  “I know that. But I want you to check with me.”

  The maid took a deep breath. “Does you want anything else this mornin, mam?”

  “No. But I want you to check. Do your job. I shall wash my face first, you dumb woman. My coffee will be cold. I should have let my husband bring the railroad through here, then I would have more help to choose from and would not have to put up with such as I have.” She stood balancing on the cane looking at the tray. Mornings were the hardest on her hips. She would not use the cane outside of her rooms and not even there if anyone but Minna was around. She detested the age the cane indicated. “Here now, go back and heat the coffee again. I detest cold coffee.”

  “But this coffee is scalding, mam. I saw to it myself.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, mam.”

  “Then, do it!”

  mrs. Befoe looked in her mirror a moment. She frowned, then sighed. Turning, she went to the bathroom built especially for her. Inside water. Even long ago. Her father, Carl Befoe, could get anything done anywhere. All it takes is money, he used to say. Someone, the maid usually, had to light the mechanism down in the basement for the water to be hot and turn it off after a certain time, but hot water right in your bedroom was a luxury in the little town of Yoville. A few of the other rich families had had the mechanism installed soon after the Befoes, using the engineer while he was there. “But we were first!” the Befoes said loudly.

  Finishing her morning toilette, she returned to her room, yanked the bellpull for her maid to hurry and went to sit at her all-purpose desk-table. “Ahhhh, what I must endure!”

  She seemed to be looking out of the window. Musing. But she was not looking out of the window. She was still looking into her life and those lives around her. The past. When the maid returned with her morning tray, Mrs. Befoe asked, “Is my … Mr. Befoe up yet
?”

  “Yes, mam.”

  “Has he taken his medicine? Is he almost out of it? Is it time for more?”

  “I don’t know, mam. I didn’t talk to Baily yet.”

  “I suppose he is going to want to sit out in the garden and drink his … coffee.”

  “Yes, mam.” The maid was through and wanted to leave.

  Mrs. Befoe turned to her, “Yes mam what? You silly woman! See if he has taken his medicine, let me know, then leave me alone until I call you again! And see if he needs his prescription filled again.”

  “Yes, mam.” The maid fairly flew from the room. She had been working for Mrs. Befoe several years now. They were not the slightest of friends. Mrs. Befoe wanted a French maid, but none would stay. “Putting up with that ole bitch and the isolation of Yoville. No men! It is too much for me!” were their parting thoughts.

  • • •

  alone, Mrs. Befoe sipped her coffee and looked at her room. She had sent for or brought back all this splendor from her travels to Europe and other far places. Her rooms were quite elegant and luxurious. Crystal lamps, Aubusson and Brussels rugs and carpets. Huge white furniture, glowing, gleaming from daily polishing over the years. Lace and satin coverlets and quilts, satin settees and deep, soft chairs. A white, marble fireplace, yellowed from polishing with poor wax, held a fire burning small but bright, for winter was just leaving and the morning chill still clung to the air.

  In these rich rooms, in this rich house, a profound melancholy had long settled on everything. And almost everybody. Especially Mrs. Befoe.

  the maid returned with the newspapers that Mrs. Befoe saw first every morning. “Mr. Befoe has took his medicine and I blive he is going out to the garden. Baily wasn’t sure if he needed more pills, mam.” Mrs. Befoe took the papers, looked at the maid and smiled, not at the woman, but at her own thoughts. Then she waved her hand and said, “Send for more of his pills anyway. Bring them directly to me. I’ll call you when I am finished.”

  As she hurried away, Minna spoke to herself out loud but softly, “I don’t know why you wanna know,” she mimicked, “if he took his medicine anyway. You know ain’t nothin in it when you gets through with it! You all white folks is crazy! Chile!” Minna was the daughter of the midwife, Ma Mae. As the granddaughter of Ma Lal, she knew almost everything about the goings-on in Yoville, and she was a direct line to Ma Mae and Ma Lal of all that went on in the Befoe house. Ma Lal loved gossip, it was almost all she had to spice up her life in her old age.

  mrs. Befoe usually read the financial sheets of the papers, but this morning she lay them aside, turning back to the window. She looked out at the sun-filled morning, the trees and land still wet with dew, that dew sparkling on the grass, nature glittering in the sun. She sighed, leaning her arms on the desk. All the pictures from her family and friends throughout her years were before her. She looked at the loveliest picture of herself, then sighed again. She looked down at her own body and shivered with distaste.

  Her body felt suddenly cold. Empty. Of all good things. Withered and aged from lack of everything but greed and need for the symbols of plenty. The unadmitted loneliness she had felt for many years. Her mind, her life, was empty of everything but herself. Oh, yes, it was full of money … and hate.

  There was no one to come to her or for her to go to in friendship. No one spoke soft, gentle words to her nor put their arms around her with true concern. No evidence of affection. She thought, “There are those who come to me because of my power. If I do not give them something they want, they do not come back.” She forgot these things were evidence of affection she had almost never given to anyone except her father. And yes, her uncle Richard, her father-in-law. But not to her daughter, Richlene. Even the lovers later, much later, when she knew her true love was never coming to her again. These later lovers through the years had been more useful for her self-adoration than they were for feelings of lovers. Their lovemaking was proof that she was desired; she lied to herself if she thought it was proof that she was loved. It was necessary in the sophisticated world she had moved in for others to know she was desired. She spent enough on clothes and jewels, furs, perfumes and potions to have someone desire her. She had pretended and they had pretended. Perhaps not all of them, but most. In truth, only her husband had ever really loved her. And she hated her husband Richard because she believed he stood between her and who was rightfully hers. She chose to deceive herself.

  She turned her head to the side, looking at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Then she looked again at the pictures in front of her, thinking, “What is it? When does it all happen … the change in life? It comes so slowly … yet so surely. One day you are young, full of life, surrounded by love”—she had never been, but lies were so easy—“and there is a future! A brilliant future. There is surely love somewhere in your future. A love you can … keep. It belongs to you. Everyone tells you that.” She leaned back in her satin-covered, soft chair, ran her fingers through her hair which was almost all gray now. Her eyes moved to a picture of her father. “Papa Befoe. Great Papa Befoe. My father. My love.” She closed her eyes and saw her father as he had been in the past.

  Carl Eustace Befoe had come south looking for fortune during the Civil War. He came to find ways to exploit the war and make money, from either side. And he made a lot of money because there were things both the South and the North needed and wanted from each other. It was supposed to be illegal for them to do business with the enemy. However, they were willing to pay for what they wanted “under the table.” Both sides. Help your enemy?! But it was done, as it is always done by those who love money. Carl Befoe was good at it. He made himself and several other “gentlemen” rich.

  He was tall, slender, dark-haired, with dark eyes that twinkled always with some private joke of his that he was playing on life. Or so he thought. He loved women and didn’t know of any he would marry because he did not want any woman that any other man had slept with. Not because of religion or any high moral standard. He just knew what he had done to most of the women in his life and didn’t want any used property.

  Naturally, he attended many social events while in the South for the necessary connections for his private work. He was welcomed everywhere because he was single, handsome and rich. Few people look beyond these things. At one of these events, he met Victoria Elizabeth. She was a lovely, quiet, tender, young girl. A virgin. Everyone knew it. He turned his twinkling eyes on her and her innocent heart flew gently to him. Of course, it helped that most all the eligible men were off fighting the war. Carl and Victoria married shortly thereafter, mostly because Victoria’s father knew Carl Befoe had a great deal of money and was well established in the South and North. He would not have to worry about his daughter any longer.

  Carl had his virgin. Victoria had been raised to be a lady, a genteel lady. She had a soft, gentle gaiety. She had been taught sex was a duty, which, for her mother, it might have been. Carl was a healthy, lusty man. He loved healthy, lusty women. He took his quiet little wife to Paris and to Rome to make her gay and glamourous. Stood at her side and bought magnificent clothes, rich perfumes, makeup, all things that women usually love. Victoria wore the clothes, they were lovely, but in her growing unhappiness the clothes lost their glamour, some of their beauty. They just hung on her and her quiet personality. She wore the perfumes, she loved the perfumes, until she saw that they encouraged Carl to want to make love. She stopped wearing them. She never touched the makeup. She could hear her mother say “powder and paints are for whores.” She never knew her mother used makeup, however lightly.

  Carl was gentle, even patient, in the beginning, but in a few short months he became disgusted with Victoria, uncaring and, consequently, rougher. These were small but important things to both of them. Soon Victoria began to hate her life. She still felt some love for Carl, but she tried to avoid him. To do that she pretended to become sickly. It did not stop him. When she had her first child, a daughter who Carl named Carlene, she wa
s just beginning to hate her husband. She requested separate bedrooms. Carl indulged her. He felt she was delicate and the birth was difficult. Besides, he was already often at the isolated house of gaiety the local gentry had built and kept for such purposes.

  When she gave birth to her second, unwanted daughter, she named the child Sally. But now her hatred for Carl completely filled her frail, tired, little body. She seldom left her home.

  The housecleaning and kitchen help, even her own maid, gave her no sympathy because they all thought Mr. Carl Befoe was such a handsome, wonderful man. “How can that woman be so dumb she don’t know when she got the best thing!” they laughed. She was alone. Except for little Sally, whom she loved. But, now, Victoria even began to hate her daughter Carlene, because Carlene adored her father and tried to be like him always. Her robust temperament was at odds with her mother’s. Victoria exasperated Carlene who laughed at her “vapors.”

  About a year later, Victoria had used up all the little staying power she had left. She lay in bed looking at all the bottles of. medicine prescribed for her by the town physician. She did not know this medicine was practically useless. She took it all. She begged God, “Let me die, NOW, let me die. I don’t want to stay here in this life. Let me PLEASE die NOW!”

  She did not die. When she woke up the next morning she still felt ill, but her heart held the first rage she had ever known in her life. At last, she went down the grand stairs as they were meant to be descended. She went into the kitchen, stared fiercely at the cook and the kitchen help. “Where is the laudanum you give yourselves when you are sick? I want it now!” She went up the stairs with the laudanum the same way she had come down, but now she felt triumphant. She sat in her bed, drinking the laudanum from a sherry glass, laughing to herself. “It’s the coward’s way,” something said in her mind. She laughed more weakly now. “I’m no coward. I’m tired. I don’t belong here in this world with this man and his child. I’ve never liked the world since I’ve been grown. It is filled with lies and false friends.” She lay back in the bed, the glass tilting, spilling bits of the liquid. She thought of Sally. “I … love … Sally. What am I doing to Sally? Leaving her here alone?! Poor Sally!”