“She may live forever,” Sarah said cheerfully. “She’s never been corroded by much pleasure or pain. Taking to her bed means nothing. When the old ones do that, it’s the overture to Act Five, but—have you noticed?—that always seems the longest at a play, no matter how much you’ve liked it.”
They smiled and resumed working. They sweated and gossiped, saying things they might never have said in any other place at any other time, and certainly not to any other person. When they put down their tools to go and wash themselves and see what Josephine had packed for them to eat, Sarah said, “No wonder I love this day.”
13
The Thursday they were to go to Frankie’s was an ordinary day which Benjamin spent in an ordinary way, riding and walking the fields with Zadok to direct and monitor the work of the hired force of Negroes, about twenty of whom lived at Beulah Land and were considered permanently attached to the plantation, their women and older children working alongside them in the fields or employed in housework. The corn was flourishing, having had a proper proportion of rain to sun, and the cotton stretched in neat rows farther than the eye could measure, interrupted now and then by small clumps of trees that had been left to provide occasional refuge from the sun that would weary the hardiest in July and August and September.
Benjamin and Sarah continued to breakfast together, there being no formally laid first meal at the house in the Glade. Priscilla took a tray in her room, and Bruce was breast-fed in the nursery, although she was beginning to be given other food as well. Benjamin often drank coffee with Freda in the kitchen before joining his grandmother at the main house, but he always came home for noon dinner and early evening supper, having asked Velma to bring Bruce to the dining room so that she might be a part of family meals from the beginning. The May sun warmed without burning, and in late afternoon Benjamin and Daniel met to swim in the creek and scrub themselves clean with Spanish moss.
Going home, Benjamin followed what was becoming a new routine by taking Bruce in his arms and walking through the Glade. Velma accompanied them, not anxiously, for she trusted Benjamin with the baby as she did no one else, but there if she was needed. Bruce was content in Benjamin’s arms, and he fancied that she would thus learn to love the Glade as he had loved it since boyhood. It pleased him to imagine that one day it would be her first memory. Seeing that Benjamin had dressed for the evening party, Velma followed closer than usual, in order to take the child if she began to wet. She did not, and Benjamin praised her when, their tour of inspection over, he handed her to Velma, who beamed at him and the child, sharing the praise.
Happy with his world, he sauntered to his wife’s room. They had not resumed sharing it since Bruce’s birth, but he was in and out as he chose. Finding Priscilla as he’d left her at noon, he asked when she would be ready to leave for their engagement. She told him that she was not going; her sister Elizabeth had come in the afternoon with a message from their mother. Mr. Oglethorpe, it seemed, was again unwell.
“You promised Frankie you’d come,” Benjamin said.
“I think ‘promise’ a strong word for an invitation lightly offered and casually accepted. You accepted; I did not.”
“I looked to you before I said we’d come, and you did not say no. I believe you nodded.”
“I do not think I did.”
“Agreed with your eyes, then.”
“You took it for granted, husband.”
“You did not demur. You heard Jane accept for her and Daniel. I looked at you when you said nothing, and only then answered for us, because you seemed to wait for me to do so.”
“What does it matter? Surely everything yields to family illness.”
“Has the nature of your father’s complaint been settled?”
“Doctor Platt isn’t certain but advises sleep and no solid food for a day or so.”
“Then it is no more serious than other such ‘complaints’ he has taken to bed. After so many years I wonder that his stomach is not proof against your mother’s bad table.”
Her voice sharpened. “You’ve abused my mother quite enough on that score in the past.”
“Did Mrs. Oglethorpe know we were going to supper at Frankie’s?”
“I believe so. I sent word by Elizabeth that I would come.”
“That word you will consider a promise.”
“I can add nothing to Frankie’s party. I do not admire her and should be thought deficient in my appreciation of her portrait. You will make up for me in that respect. If you will just take me to Mama’s and set me down, you are then free to go to Frankie’s and praise everything enough to satisfy both her and Bonard. I shall be happier sitting with my family, and ready when you return for me.”
“It will be thought inconsiderate.”
Priscilla smiled faintly. “You exaggerate the importance that attaches. Surely you realize it is you she wants. I should contribute nothing.”
“You’re jealous,” Benjamin guessed.
“It is unkind of you to say so even in pique.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I assure you Frankie will bear up under the disappointment.”
He turned abruptly and stared at the bed. “I am ready to go when you are.”
“Now,” she said, taking a shawl she had laid out and whipping it around her shoulders.
Following, he said, “You’ve no wish to speak to Velma or say good night to Bruce?”
“Velma is capable, and the child doesn’t understand ‘good night’ any more than a cat would.”
Benjamin entered the nursery to find Velma sitting at the open window, her breast bared to the feeding child. When she saw him, she smiled a welcome. Benjamin watched the baby’s contented sucking, taking comfort from the sight. Bending, he touched his lips lightly to the top of the child’s head. It was as warm as his lips, her hair softer than a flower. Priscilla waited at the door. “I’ll get the buggy,” he said.
The anxiety in Annabel Saxon’s suggestion that Frankie be painted by Casey Troy “to catch the bloom before it fades” was premature. With the care she took, it was unlikely that fading would commence soon or advance rapidly, and she understood perfectly well that her mother-in-law’s remark was prompted by the spite of an old beauty for a young one rather than by fear that the moment be lost. Certainly tonight there could be no concern for her appearance.
“Casey has caught you just as you are,” Jane declared as the guests paused again before the portrait after supping.
Daniel shifted his lanky frame and muttered what Jane hoped would be taken by their host and hostess as concurrence. Daniel still distrusted Bonard because he’d once tried to marry Jane, and he was never comfortable in his company. It was worse for him tonight because Sarah was not there. She could make him feel easy anywhere.
Benjamin lifted his glass to Frankie and Bonard in turn. “I’m bound to admit the real thing is more remarkable than canvas allows, but as much as can be copied, Casey has done.”
Bonard finished his wine, looking gratified. “Cost me a dollar or two,” he bragged. Remembering Casey’s relation to Jane and Benjamin, he added, “And worth it.”
“And more,” Benjamin said, his eyes meeting Frankie’s.
“No question.” Bonard was refilling his glass. That done, he offered the bottle with a gesture to the other men, who refused it with a shake of the head.
Frankie smiled with pleasure, and when her husband lifted his glass to drain it, said to Jane, “Come and let me show you the new silk I found in Savannah. I don’t know how you could bring back so little from your trip. I always return with twice as much as I intended to buy.”
“True,” Bonard agreed as his wife and cousin left them in the living room. Opening a box of cigars with a pocketknife, he removed one and clamped it between his teeth before holding the box before the other two.
“No, I thank you,” Daniel said.
Benjamin accepted a cigar, rolling it between his palms and sniffing the tobacco as
it warmed and moistened.
Bonard said, “Better take them to the yard. Frankie won’t let me smoke in the house. Claims it gets into her clothes.”
Benjamin went after him through a glass door that opened directly into the rose garden which Nell Kendrick had ordered planted when Felix had taken her as a bride to live in the house. Daniel remained where he was. He was content to be alone, but he was not alone for long. The son of the house appeared in his nightgown. Both children had been shown off earlier and taken away by their mammy.
“You’re not Papa, you’re Uncle Dan,” the boy said.
“Howdy, Blair.”
“Mama told me to come say good night to Papa.”
“He’s in the yard smoking. I’ll tell him for you when he comes back.”
“I’m bigger than Bobby Lee.”
“You’re a year older,” Daniel said reasonably.
“I bet when he’s old as I am he won’t be big as I am. Davy is a little thing.”
Daniel frowned at the boy. “Good night.” He seldom liked children other than his own. The boy didn’t budge.
“You live in the country,” he said. Daniel nodded. “We live in town.”
“That is so.” Daniel yawned, and in came Fanny, followed by the mammy and Jane and Frankie. Daniel explained where the others were.
“Uncle Daniel is bigger than Papa,” Blair said.
Fanny presented herself before Daniel’s chair. “You can kiss me,” she told him.
Jane and Frankie laughed. Looking back at her as seriously as she gazed at him, Daniel kissed a finger and touched the girl’s cheek. Delighted, she kissed her own finger and touched her cheek.
“You can’t kiss me,” Blair said.
“Nobody could pay me to kiss you,” Daniel said which Frankie declared amusing as she helped the mammy shoo the children from the room. “Let’s go home,” Daniel whispered to Jane.
“Soon,” she promised. She went to stand before the portrait again. “She is beautiful. In very fact: perfect. I used to be jealous of her, but I’m not anymore.”
Daniel joined her, frowning critically. “Picture looks realer than she does. She’s always so got up. Anyway, she’s nothing compared to you.”
She grabbed him around the waist with both arms, and he was kissing her when Frankie returned.
“Look at you,” Frankie teased, and Jane was glad to see envy in her eyes.
Daniel squeezed his wife quickly before letting her go. “Just an old couple from the country.”
The night air was sweet with the scent of roses until the two men strolled from the house and began to puff tobacco smoke into it. When both cigars were burning, Bonard celebrated the accomplishment with a grunt. “Lost any of your hands this year?”
“All mine are signed,” Benjamin said.
“You know how little a promise means to a darky. Their touching the pen don’t mean a thing, though your Papa makes them do it at the mill if they can’t write their names. Some of ours heard the call of way-yonder and went to Kansas, and far as Illinois. Thought they were going to get rich. No money to go on, they beg or steal, live a day on a box of crackers or a can of pork and beans. But soon as they get there, they’re homesick for down-here. Like they say, ‘Nigger away from home is like a flea in a tar barrel; nobody cares.’”
Benjamin reiterated, “That’s truly a fine portrait Casey made of Frankie.”
Bonard winked at his guest. “Hope it keeps her tractable for a while. She’s pleased with it.”
They walked and smoked. Presently Bonard stopped, looking thoughtful. “Ben, you remember what good times we had as young bucks? Money to spend, nothing on our minds, plenty of pussy we didn’t pay for, unless you want to count the Crawford girls. Now I pay for it and don’t always get it.” He walked again.
Benjamin was surprised that Bonard should say such a thing to him, for although they had been friendly in the offhand way of cousins, they had never been friends. “You have two healthy children, Bo.”
“Well, yeah,” Bonard agreed. “You’ve had some bad luck that way.”
“Bruce is fine now. We’ve a good girl taking care of her, and she’s growing like a hound puppy.”
“Glad to hear you say that,” Bonard said too heartily. “I bet she’ll be all right. Not every girl is a beauty or needs to be.” Again he was thoughtful, and when he decided to speak his thought, it was: “I sure am working my butt off at the mill. Have to, to keep Frankie in everything she wants. That woman can spend money faster than a nigger can eat watermelon and spit seeds.”
He wouldn’t have asked it in daylight or if their conversation had been different. “Bo—after your children were born, how long before you, you and your wife—”
It took Bonard a moment to understand. “Oh, you mean! I waited a couple of weeks, I guess, because she made me.” After a long pause for another thought he asked, “How old is your Bruce?”
“She was born in February.”
“March, April, May,” Bonard counted. “Lord God! Well, I reckon you been getting it somewhere. Know I did, did and do.” When Benjamin remained silent, Bonard said, “Mean to say you’ve not been doing it at all when your wife was pregnant? You used to need pussy like a horse needs hay to work. Do without a week and you’d go around with that thing splitting your britches. I remember.” Benjamin walked, and after a moment Bonard caught up with him. “Forget it if I spoke out of turn, but it ain’t good for a man to be without.”
“No,” Benjamin agreed, and they went into the house, discarding cigars in a rose bed on the way.
14
At sixteen Elizabeth Oglethorpe was pretty, whereas her sister had been as plain a girl as she was now a woman. That plainness had even been part of her appeal for Benjamin, along with what he called her goodness, when he was passed over by Frankie Dollard for his cousin Bonard. Benjamin remembered this when his knock at the Oglethorpe door was answered by Elizabeth. “Come in, Ben.”
He shook his head. “Thank you, Betty, but I get up at five, so if Priscilla is ready, we’ll go along.”
“She’s waiting.”
He’d known she would be, and she came immediately. They went to the buggy without words. It was not until they were leaving the town that he spoke. “How did you find your father?”
“He is resting now. He asked to be alone, and we hope he will sleep.”
“I trust he’ll be recovered by morning, but you may want the buggy. I’ll tell Zadok, and he’ll have a man bring you in whenever you say.”
“Mama will send word if I am required.”
The town behind them, they crossed the bridge over the swampy creek, its moss-hung sycamores tall on both sides. It was a still night, and the horse’s hooves on the wooden boarding waked some of the wild creatures. Benjamin heard a rustling in the brush and then a sound of big wings. Buzzards, he decided.
“Was it a pleasant evening?”
“Most pleasant,” he answered. “Frankie has an excellent cook. I made your excuses. Everyone admired your devotion to family and expressed the hope that Mr. Oglethorpe would recover. Not wanting them to live in suspense, I gave assurance that his indisposition was not without precedent, nor beyond the physician’s skill. I did not, however, suggest that he merely had a bellyache.”
“Your banter is coarse and heartless.”
“I beg your pardon. Shall I tell you about the portrait?”
“I have already heard it described as a masterpiece. Is there anything to add to that?”
“Nothing that would please you. The children were brought out.”
“We all saw them recently at the elder Mrs. Saxon’s.”
“Aunt Annabel would not care for your description of her.”
“It is not a description; it is to differentiate her from her two daughters-in-law.”
“They are lively children. Frankie and Bonard are proud of them.”
“I hope they will be good,” Priscilla said.
They rode in silence un
til they reached the Glade, where Benjamin helped his wife down from the buggy before unhitching the horse, not wanting to rouse one of the men. When he had rolled the buggy under shelter and settled the horse in his stall, he returned to the house. Entering the big bedroom, he found that Priscilla had undressed and put on her nightgown. It was a plain white gown, high at the neck and touching the floor when she sat, as she now did before the mirror, brushing out her hair. Though she was not beautiful, finding her so was a reminder of past intimacy between them. He went to stand behind her, looking at her in the lamp-lighted mirror glass.
“Good night,” she said when she saw him, and continued brushing. When he did not go, she added, “It is late, and you will be up early.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. Rising, she turned and swept her hair back with both hands, catching and tying it at the neck. It gave her face a vulnerable look.
“I want to sleep with you tonight,” he said.
“I’m tired. We will be more comfortable if we continue as we have been, you in your room, I in mine.”
“I am not thinking of comfort.” As she moved away, he caught and held her.
“I told you: I am tired.”
“I need you,” he said. “It’s three months since the baby was born. I asked Bonard how long they waited—”
“You discussed me with another man?” Her face went red.
“How was I to learn, except from a married man?”
“You should have asked me.”
“You never want to talk about these things.”
“I am too ashamed,” she said after a pause.
“Ashamed, Priscilla? However innocent you were when we were married, you surely knew something of what it would mean. It’s a long time since we were together. I need you, Priscilla. Let me love you. Try to love me and let me show you. I want you and I want another child.” He kissed her, but she pulled away, and he let her go.
Stepping to the wardrobe, she said, “I won’t allow you to force me.”
“I never have, I never shall.”
“I have submitted.” She found a robe and put it on.
The Legacy of Beulah Land Page 8
