Ruth's Journey: The Authorized Novel of Mammy From Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind

by Donald McCaig

  How Young Master Wilkes Come Home

  SO WE DON’T go to Savannah. Ellen’s sister Pauline write that Master Pierre divide he competence among he daughters, except he gives Nehemiah L’Ancien Régime and set him free. Don’t know how Nehemiah fare ’thout Pierre. It one thing pretend you Master when you gots Master, another be Master youownself.

  In December a crate come to express office at Jonesboro depot and Big Sam and Prophet fetches it. It the painting of Mistress Solange from Pink House mantel, which, Miss Pauline’s note say, am willed to Miss Ellen.

  Miss Ellen have Master O’Hara’s Irish painting took upstairs to their bedroom and hang Miss Solange where Ireland been. Master O’Hara, he doubtful. He clasp he hands behind he back and say, “I dunno, Missus O’Hara. Won’t I be sittin’ here of an evenin’ and feel her eyes fixed on me like she is the great lady and I am her stableboy?”

  “Mr. O’Hara,” Miss Ellen says. “Every grand planter needs a French aristocrat over his mantel.”

  But Master Gerald mind ain’t easy, so she say, “Dear Mr. O’Hara, Solange Robillard died so I could be born.”

  So that be that. Sometimes, when he think nobody watchin’, Master Gerald raise he glass to Mistress Solange. Master Gerald grateful for what he got.

  First time she see her grandma hangin’ there, Miss Carreen gasp like she seed a ghost. Miss Katie, she study Miss Solange for a spell afore she asks me, “Am I to be like Grandma, Mammy?”

  Somethin’ flickers behind my eyes. It like I awake but dreamin’ same time. Dreamin’ I at big junction, more roads than I can count. I can go down ary of them, but I walk down Miss Katie’s, and here she am wearin’ a green dress which match her eyes and her hair pulled back in comb and she a woman growed. But Miss Katie ain’t satisfy. It comes to me she ain’t satisfy.

  I rubs my eyes and slip out of that dream and clutch that old horsehide sofa. If I clutch hard enough, I doesn’t faint. I say, “No, honey. Not yet you ain’t.” Cold chill come over me and Miss Katie ask what wrong and I says, “Someone steppin’ on my grave. It’s nothin’, honey. You go on.”

  I don’t know how it happen that them what wants to see can’t and them what don’t want to see, they gots to.

  * * *

  Young Mistress Katie O’Hara didn’t want be no woman. If she could have been horse, she would have been horse. She always with that Beezlebub and can’t talk ’bout nothin’ else. Miss Ellen worryin’ ’bout her daughter deportment ’count girls s’posed to admire men riders, not be one. Miss Katie impatient with pretty dresses Rosa sew for her, and them fine crocheted collars and cuffs her aunts send her for Christmas go in the chifforobe and nevermore see the light of day. Miss Katie wear boys’ long pants and boys’ corduroy shirts and ridin’ boots. Sometimes she forget take off her spurs, and sofa foot, which is carved like a big lion paw, have lost he toe and he claw.

  She bein’ on that horse from can to can’t. I can’t get her do nothin’ round the house.

  Suellen and Carreen growin’ up like they s’posed. They understands deportment, which Miss Katie plain don’t. Gettin’ Miss Katie deportment is like kneadin’ dough without no yeast. No matter how you grunts and shoves, it gonna be one sad loaf.

  Miss Katie think she got all the deportment she need, and Mistress Beatrice, ’stead of checkin’ and reinin’ Miss Katie in, lets her run wild.

  Master Gerald, he ain’t discipline Miss Katie neither. All them things what girls ain’t s’posed to do, he forgives.

  After three Baby Geralds, somethin’ in Miss Ellen lost. She still do: she run the household, visit the sick, help them what needs help. Every day she has family prayers, and sometimes she take train into Atlanta for Catholic church. But her heart not with us. Her heart with them Geralds.

  In August, Miss Eleanor Wilkes dies. Young Master Ashley be off in Europe when he Momma pass. Miss Eleanor laid out in Twelve Oaks withdrawing room, and womens sit round the coffin whilst men on veranda drinkin’ whiskey and talkin’ hushed. Miss Eleanor daughter Miss Honey Wilkes, she swoons, so Miss India got be Twelve Oaks Mistress. Wilkes children never had no Mammy, and it shows.

  Couple evenin’s after his wife buried, Master Wilkes ride over sit with Master Gerald on Tara front porch. They talkin’ late and decanter empty afore Master John ride home. Master Gerald come in all gloomy and take hold of Miss Ellen and hugs her like he ’feared she gonna disappear.

  * * *

  Not long after, I come from church, still in my Sunday clothes, when Miss Katie come into kitchen with saddle blanket wrapped round her and she nods like “Mammy, I needs you” afore she start up back stairs. In bedroom she drop saddle blanket and the back of her britches bloody. I gasps, but Miss Katie cool like nothin’ at all.

  She drop britches to the floor and steps out of chemise. “Don’t stand there gawking. Fetch me a washcloth.”

  “It’s the Jack, honey.” I dip cloth into washbasin, clean her up.

  “I know what it is.” She more annoyed than affrighted. “Haven’t I helped Beatrice breed Papa’s mares?”

  I gasps out. “What you done?”

  She shake her head like she so tired. “Now, Mammy . . .”

  “No young lady doin’ that sort of thing! I gots tell you Momma!” Miss Katie wrap she Papa round her little finger. Not she Momma��Katie got respect for Miss Ellen!

  “Mammy! It’s natural!”

  “That don’t make it right. Young ladies, they don’t got know nothin’ ’bout such things.” All the time I wipin’ on her, thighs and bottom, and I folds a clean towel tucked in there and we both looks at each other and Katie a woman and Ruth a woman and I can’t help grin findin’ my face.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No, ma’am, Miss Katie Scarlett O’Hara. Take a brave man to laugh at you.”

  Which was how Miss Katie becomes a woman. She didn’t care for it, not a little bit.

  Grass growin’ over them three little graves. Flowers open and bloom and die, Miss Ellen havin’ ladies’ teas again, and one by one she blue cups broke. Fairhill and Twelve Oaks and Tara and Calverts and Munroes havin’ barbecues, one, two, three a month. I don’t know how nothin’ get done. Jincy, Twelve Oaks coachman, play fiddle so good he don’t drive no rig from June to September!

  Honey Wilkes mournin’, but you think that keep her from flirtin’? Not on you life! Honey admirin’ them boys’ thisnesses and thatnesses, callin’ arybody “honey,” which is how she get her name. At Calvert barbecue, Honey say, “Oh, Brent, I declare I never saw a finer horseman,” which Miss Katie overhear, and ridin’ back to Tara afterwards, she say over and over until I thinks Suellen gonna hit her, “Oh, Brent! You ol’ horseman you!”

  Miss Ellen say, “Katie, it is good manners to praise a gentleman’s accomplishments.”

  “Oh, Momma, they’re not accomplishments. The Tarleton twins can sit a horse. But Brent? Beatrice talks about buying him a mule because Brent’d look better on a mule. Why does Honey lie about him?”

  “Honey isn’t lying. Not exactly. Flattering, yes. Honey was flattering Brent. The ability to make a man feel good about himself is a lady’s special gift.”

  “Brent Tarleton sits a horse like a sack of flour.”

  “I’m sure Brent is well aware of his shortcomings, my dear. ­Aren’t we all?”

  Since I don’t think Miss Katie think she got ary shortcomings, I smiles, and she get on me ’stead of her Momma.

  “Mammy, doesn’t the Bible say we shouldn’t lie?”

  “I dunno, baby. We ain’t supposed to use the Lord’s Name in vain, but that special kind of lyin’, not everyday lyin’. Plenty times, I expect lyin’ better’n next worst thing.”

  “Oh, Mammy!”

  Had her way, Miss Katie wouldn’t go to no barbecues, but she don’t gets her way. When Miss Ellen say, “The
O’Haras will attend,” she mean ary O’Hara and house servants too, ’count we O’Haras, even the blackest.

  But when Miss Katie havin’ her own way, she off ridin’ that red devil Beelzebub. Horse never know’d no other rider, ain’t nobody ever been on he back ’cept Miss Katie. When she walk to the pasture, break of day, fog still hangin’, he come runnin’ and nickerin’, glad be alive and glad be Miss Katie’s horse. Katie closer to that horse than her own flesh and blood. She don’t pay hardly any mind to Suellen and Carreen ’less they blockin’ her way.

  She Papa’s Darlin’, and there’s many an afternoon I seen Master Gerald and Miss Katie ridin’ out together like father and son.

  ’Thout Miss Eleanor and with Master Ashley away, Master John Wilkes don’t know what do with heself. Evenings, when Master Gerald ain’t at Twelve Oaks, Master John at Tara, where they talkin’ ’bout cotton and horse races and “the Compromise,” somethin’ ’bout havin’ slaves in Kansas—do they got slaves or don’t they?

  Them Four Horsemen of Apocalypse comin’, but nobody want remark it. When them Millerites was sayin’ world gonna end, everybody jabberin’ mornin’ to night how Jesus comin’ and world gonna end. Which, come the day He don’t and it don’t and everybody forget ’bout Rev. Miller and he prophecy.

  But war comin’ so big and quick I ’most ’spect to hear drums beatin’! But nobody talk ’bout no war. It like talkin’ gonna bring war on so shut your mouth! Instead, they talks about President Pierce what he doin’ and Stephen Douglas and Henry Clay what they doin’, and they drink they whiskey till decanter empty.

  Master Ashley Wilkes been gone near three year. He been to England and France, all them places. He all the time writin’ Master John ’bout them places.

  Master Gerald particular glad Master Ashley comin’ home. Miss Ellen glad too, ’count she hopin’ when Master Ashley home, Master John not bein’ so lonesome. All O’Haras ’cept Miss Katie at Twelve Oaks when Master Ashley comes home. Miss Katie has sprain her ankle and she stay home.

  Jincy gone for to collect him, and we waits on Twelve Oaks veranda drinkin’ sweet tea. Miss Ellen and Wilkes girls fannin’ theyselfs. Bees buzzin’ through rosebushes Miss Wilkes plant, which ain’t lookin’ so pert since she pass. Master Wilkes white as a cotton boll but smilin’ like he ain’t done in ages, and him and Master Gerald be drinkin’ juleps Pork make, ’count Pork famous for he juleps. They discussin’ how hot it am and how yesternight Master Hugh Calvert get so drunk he falls off he horse and break somethin’, and both them sinners laughin’ like they never been drunk theyownselves. Twelve Oaks house niggers hangin’ round and won’t shoo when Miss Honey shoo ’em.

  When Jincy bring buggy up lane we quit talkin’. Young Master been gone such a time we wonderin’ if he still that boy born and reared on Twelve Oaks plantation. Am he who he been?

  Before buggy quit rollin’, Young Master Ashley jump down and take his Papa arms, like he never seed him before. They alike, but John Wilkes tired as old scrip and Ashley Wilkes bright and sharp edge as new copper penny.

  Ashley changed. He were a quiet boy with gray eyes seem like he just got here and gone blink of your eye. Master Ashley changed. He done knowed women and ain’t no boy no more.

  He ain’t lost that way of seemin’ to see what nobody else do, but he don’t stay away so long as before. He smile sweet and easy and sad.

  Master John ask ’bout Rome and Greeks, and Master Gerald ask ’bout Ireland. Master Ashley been visitin’ them places Masters care ’bout. He ain’t visit Haiti nor Africa.

  We all crowded around jabberin’. Jincy sets a parcel aside Twelve Oaks’s front door.

  “I found it in Paris,” Master Ashley say.

  Master John raise he eyebrows.

  “I thought you’d like it. It’s sentimental.”

  Laugh burst out of Master John, and pretty soon we all laughin’ even though we ain’t got the joke.

  It painting of soldiers in a battle who ain’t fightin’ a war ’count they tendin’ a little wounded dog.

  “Vernet,” Master Ashley tells his father, solemn as a judge.

  Master John, solemn too, though he lip quiverin’. “For the hall? The withdrawing room?”

  Only Wilkeses grinnin’. Us folks admirin’ Master Vernet painting of soldiers tending a hurt dog whilst war goin’ on. Why don’t they take hold of that dog and run for they life, is what I’m thinking.

  Master John have he tongue in he cheek. “Sublime.”

  “Man’s inhumanity to dog,” Master Ashley say.

  Somethin’ in Master John’s eyes change then, ’count joke ain’t funny no more. “Man is meant to mourn.” Ashley Wilkes’s papa ain’t talkin’ ’bout no painting no more.

  “Mother didn’t suffer?”

  Master John about to break down, which he would have hated front of all us. “Death was merciful. Eleanor is in her Savior’s arms.”

  “Oh, Ashley. Dear Ashley!” Honey and India Wilkes break the spell. They hugs him so hard, he catch his balance and sayin’, “Please, please! Don’t knock the weary traveler off his feet!”

  Honey stick out she tongue.

  Everything back to where it been. Master Gerald askin’ ’bout Ireland, and he ain’t satisfied till Ashley tells him day by day how he gets from Dublin to Cork and how it rain every day and the sun didn’t really set so much as it slink into the mist.

  “Oh, it’s wet all right,” Master Gerald crows and slaps his thighs like he made it wet heownself.

  “And how is our dear nation? Shall we elect Frémont or Buchanan?”

  His Papa say Buchanan, and Master Ashley say how Europeans think we goin’ to war, and I feel a stab to my heart and I sits down in chair which am Miss Eleanor’s favored rocker. I fannin’ myself and gaspin’ and folks’ faces blurry and voice in my ear am Miss Ellen, who press tea glass into my hand.

  “I be all right,” I say. “I just don’t want no war.”

  “Sensible minds will prevail, Mammy,” Master John says.

  But Master Ashley raise his sad eyes and says, “Will they? The fool does not delight in understanding. He delights in his own mind.”

  “Of course they will.” Master John put a snap in he voice.

  Me? I’m thinkin’ with Master Ashley.

  Then six-horse wagon rolls up Twelve Oaks lane with a great crate tied down with ropes.

  Master Ashley, he tell Mose get a gang to Momma’s rose garden. They’s to bring skids and block and tackle and pry bars and such.

  Well, we troops down to garden where Mistress Eleanor plant so many roses two coloreds busy day in day out carin’ for ’em. Them roses get better care’n some childrens. Field hands skid crate off wagon and Mose take pry bar to crate, which has got a metal horse. Green horse rearin’ and wavin’ it hoofs about. I seen better-lookin’ horses.

  Master John wipin’ tear from he eye.

  “Etruscan,” Master Ashley announce, like Master Etruscan particular good maker of green metal horses.

  “Eleanor . . . she . . . she would have been delighted.”

  “I bought it for Mother. Her lovely garden begs for a fountain.”

  “She often spoke . . .”

  Well, everybody feels like we is where we ain’t s’posed to be, like we somewhere private. Wilkeses, they got a way of makin’ folks feel that way.

  That big green horse ain’t no end of what in that crate. Master Ashley got a silver cup from Ireland for Master Gerald. I don’t know why it call “stirrup cup”—child couldn’t get a foot in it. Master Gerald fit to be tied. He want know ’zactly where Master Ashley buy it, and when Master Ashley says, Master Gerald grinnin’ ’count he know silver shop well, pass by it many a time.

  Master Ashley has a fine lace shawl for Miss Ellen and lace collars and cuffs for he sisters. Might b
e he buy the shawl for his Momma Eleanor, but gives it to Miss Ellen.

  When Master Ashley ask for Miss Katie, Miss Ellen tell him, “She was thrown yesterday and slightly injured. I insisted she stay home.”

  Master Ashley grin like Miss Ellen and him knows somethin’ other folks doesn’t. “Miss Katie . . . thrown? She’s more cocklebur than little girl.”

  “No longer a ‘little girl,’ Ashley,” Miss Ellen say.

  “Ah.”

  Later that evenin’ I keepin’ Miss Katie company on Tara porch when Master Ashley ride up. That man always dress right. Even when he was little boy I never seed him mussed. He done change he travelin’ clothes and he boots shined blood red and he gray trousers, which are tighter’n needs be, and a white shirt, which don’t look like it ever been wore afore, and a gold tie pin and hat ’most as white as he shirt.

  He doff hat to Miss Katie and smile. She sit bolt upright like lightning done hit her. He come up the stairs and kiss her hand like a Frenchman and says how she’s growed up. She don’t say nary one word. Might be she can’t.

  He say, “I’m sorry about your fall.”

  Miss Katie start to ’splain, but she choke. “Tree limb” is all what come out.

  “Ah well, if you must gallop through the woods.” He dip in his pocket for little blue silk pouch.

  For a second I thinks he gots a ring in there, but it a wore-out piece of brass.

  “Put this on his harness and Beelzebub will shun low branches.”

  Miss Katie don’t know to thank him. She blush. He say, “This horse brass decorated a Roman bridle two thousand years ago.”

  “I know when the Romans were,” Miss Katie say, sharper than she means to.

  “I’m sure you do,” he say, smilin’ that sweet smile, and Miss Katie don’t know ’zactly what to do so she bob her head like little girl. When she figures how silly that look, she straighten to say, stern-like, “Thank you, Mr. Wilkes. Beelzebub will treasure it always.”