Pale

by Edward A. Farmer

  Floyd’s words lingered in the space as he and I sat a while longer with the smell of coffee and sweet rolls thick upon our breaths, his mind lost mostly in memories of the house when the Missus and her daughter filled that place with laughter and a curtain never sat unparted in a single room.

  CHAPTER 7

  For days no one did speak or listen to a single thought outside of their own. Each moment fell into another, and for weeks I could not answer surely what time or day of the week it truly was. Jesse had remained on at the house as planned, working with Floyd in the fields, while Fletcher did not show his face nor have any mention of his name after that heated dinner. I thought of him often, any joy I felt clouded by his troubled face, which would come to me like a bad dream and persist despite my attempts to wake up. Silva went about her duties with no extra spark of kindness, retracting from me even that slight warmth she’d started to show. Indeed, she served me pancakes with cold syrup. She gave me butter for toast that was not softened enough to spread. She made me lunches that were not concluded with a slice of her warm 7 Up cake.

  Still, some things did continue as usual. Most days following that evening and its dinner, the Missus took her needlework and a slice of pie out to the front porch as she sat for hours in view of those languished trees and fallowed fields that surrounded their home this time of year. For the Southern winter was indeed a cruel monster, we all knew, not necessarily colder than most but just as punishing with its lack of color—the once-green grass now a pale yellow, the leaf-covered trees that made tolerable the torrential rain now stripped of all life, the iced-over ground a pathetic reminder of the sleet that never turned to snow. It was heart wrenching, the loss we felt, the voids that reached so deep into those dark places that existed when nighttime came, and we were alone with our thoughts and our God. Still, the world continued in all directions, and the Missus sat in full view of it all despite its insipidness, her thoughts known only to herself, although her eyes did hint at their meaning.

  It was during these times that the plantation could seem so lonely, when we were left to our inhabited minds, until a passing car or truck on the road reminded us we were not so isolated and that others did exist, even if we knew not a single one on a level deeper than the absence left by their passing. Nonetheless, during this time of sadness, the Missus showed signs of life. As the months dragged on, she’d glance up every so often to see Floyd or Jesse pass with a load of mulch or new planks for the fence, and she’d smile and wave. She’d bite her bottom lip, tucking it under the top, and exhale loudly, blissfully. For weeks it remained this way until the cold finally came and the Missus fell terribly ill under the weight of her own insolence.

  There was to be no more needlework outdoors that winter, Mr. Kern made certain to inform all of us. For weeks the Missus remained laid up in bed with Silva or myself bringing her food or a magazine or puzzles to rework, although Mr. Kern never visited even once. Even in her sickly condition Miss Lula was a hell-raiser, at one point locking herself in her bathroom and refusing to come out until I finally threatened to summon Mr. Kern to her room. She suffered every minute she sat inside that house, seemingly forgetting that she had once secluded herself indoors and would not bear the outside for even a second. During this time, Silva and I became her tormentors, as she put it, and this home her prison.

  “Just one minute outdoors,” she’d beg. “I swear, the sun would do me some good.”

  “No, ma’am,” I’d argue. “It’s ice-cold out there.”

  “What about a walk?” she’d say. “Anything to gets outta this bed.”

  “No, ma’am,” I’d reply. “There ain’t even a hint of sunshine today. Frost out there could kill you.”

  Then she’d finally turn over, mumbling and groaning until she’d fussed herself into an even weaker state.

  “If it were up to me I’d leave this very instant,” she’d say right before her mind fell blank. “I swear, Bernice, I’d leave right now, if the Lord would let me.”

  Then she was peaceful again, her soft skin lay gently over her forehead, her hair a golden crown that seemingly marked her territory as queen of this manor. As I watched her, I hoped she could at least dream of some distant place, even if she would never find it in this lifetime.

  Still, that illness did not fade as the doctor had hoped, and within several months the fever had embedded itself deeper in her lungs, and she now lost most of her mobility and indeed all coordination in her legs, not to mention the color that summer had brought. Mr. Kern prepared for the worst, having us ensure the Missus was as comfortable as possible during these final days, as he put it.

  “Don’t talk like that, sir,” I said. “The Missus gonna pull right through. Be just fine.”

  “Only time …” he replied, leaving me to wait for the rest of his sentiment, although he made no further point.

  Fields once again turned green as those early cicadas sprang from their dens and could be heard around the plantation during the evening hours just before the sun set, and the grass stiffened. Mr. Kern seemingly relished his quiet dinners alone with Silva each night, the sum of their thoughts compiled in polite gestures they’d share, through smiles he gave, and those infrequent slips of his fingers when she’d pass his glass or issue his plate—a moment to breathe her scent as she hovered or leaned closer.

  All, that is, until the Missus quit her foolishness and rose from her bed in good spirits. With time she had lost that fever that had kept her down for so many months and now just sat spoiled rotten with expectancy that someone would care for her every need.

  “You better shame the devil and stand up right now,” I’d insisted. “Tell the Lord you want to live before He believe your act and take you on.”

  “Bernie!” she screamed once she’d stood from her bed. “I can feel my toes. I can wiggle them!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, “I see,” sure as hell she always could.

  “Lord willing, don’t ever let me sit again,” she declared.

  “Well, sometimes, at least,” I corrected her.

  “No, never!” she screamed back. “I swear, I’ll never stop moving.”

  She danced around the room like a possessed person, twirling to a song heard only inside her head.

  “I think I’ll even eat supper downstairs tonight if that’s okay with you, dear Bernie.”

  The Missus had a sense of humor that I’d grown tolerant of in her company. For indeed during that time we both grew fond of one another, the Missus now calling me by that shortened name and certainly feeling a strong sense of attachment to my care and no longer that of Silva’s, although with so much time together we had no choice but to grow closer. Miss Lula and I had developed an intimacy that bade upon her a proclivity to speak of those personal matters of the heart when only I was around, things she had never told a soul, as she’d close her eyes each night and fall into recollection of her previous life.

  “I did love him,” she once told me as she rested from a feverish day that almost saw her meet the Lord. “I wouldn’t marry him if I didn’t,” she swore. “But a woman’s love can only pull so far. A man can only stretch it so thin until it finally breaks.”

  She paused, opening her eyes like a child who peeks to be assured of a parent’s love, relieved to find me still seated there as she glanced around to see the empty plate placed by the window, the hairbrush I’d used to smooth her hair full of golden shimmers. Tiring, she nearly closed her eyes again, but not before she’d found me once more and gently sighed, lay back, then continued with my hand in her hand.

  “I knew he didn’t love me,” she said even weaker than before. “I could tell by the way he held my hand, like he was afraid or something, like he was my brother and I was his sister. He called Silva ‘Silvi,’ but had no name for me, only calling her by that name when he thought I wasn’t listening. She never loved him back, and that made me happy. I thought
he deserved it for treating me so bad.

  “When Elizabeth was born, I just knew he’d have to love me. But there was Fletcher, and George had eyes for only him. Poor Elizabeth would just be there. She would call out to her pappy, and he would wave her away, kiss her forehead, then send her to me, and she would come running all happy, thinking her pappy loved her too. I prayed she would never know any different, and that prayer came true for when she died, she was as dumb to his indifference as ever. But I still knew, and I swore he would have not one happy day as long as I was here. I cursed that man and sent his beloved ape from this house—Bernie, please don’t think any different of me. I done always done right by negras, but that boy remind me too much of what I lost. Anyhow, I allowed Silva to stay because she had no love for him and that alone made me the happiest in the world.”

  A contentment fell over the Missus’s face with these words as she closed her eyes and curled up beside the warmth of my hip. She fell asleep instantly, waking only once throughout the night as she mumbled some indiscernible name then fell back asleep just as quickly as she had woken.

  With her face a brushed application of crimsons and blues, and her hair fluffed to pageantry perfection, she was now ready to hobble downstairs for her first dining room meal in months.

  “How do I look?” she fussed. “More or less?”

  She panted, pointing to her flushed cheeks covered with translucent powder.

  “You look just fine, Miss,” I said, not sure which person she was trying to impress, as no one downstairs wanted or anticipated her arrival.

  Although the house was fairly large, one could still hear voices from downstairs in the upstairs quarters where the Missus and I resided during those months of her illness. The house seemingly underwent a transformation during that time, as there was a sudden increase in the frequency of both Floyd and Jesse roaming the halls, yakking some foolish nonsense that came across as mere murmurs to our ears. The Missus never acknowledged their presence, although her eyes did seem to elate at the idea of newcomers, her stare fixed on the door, as if she’d hoped they’d enter. She’d wait until the voices passed then once again work whatever puzzle or needlework she had at hand. More often than not it was Jesse’s voice we’d hear, as he had a gentle tone that caroled softly and faintly throughout the house.

  Once the Missus finished dressing on this evening and felt certain she was flawless before the mirror, she defiantly wrapped her shawl about her and went charging for the downstairs area. Silva looked up from the porcelain set with surprise, the first to see the Missus as that scarlet vixen turned the corner, her ruby shawl like that of a seductress’s whips and ties as it billowed listlessly around her collar.

  “Miss, you’re better,” Silva said, drawing the attention of Mr. Kern, who looked up immediately.

  The young woman indeed looked remarkable. Although she had not fully regained that previous summer’s color and her hair was not as danced upon by the sun, she still exuded a heartiness that made her appear supple and as beautiful as the next. Mr. Kern rushed to her side, taking her hand as he eased her into the chair. She accepted his assistance, though she was not as impressed as me by his efforts, as was evident in her strict glance around the room at the subjects she had not glimpsed in months. I first thought I saw inattentiveness in her gaze, but upon closer inspection I soon discovered it was more of a discarding of those objects that had been placed there at one point, to appease her, as if the woman no longer needed anyone or anything. Truly, it seemed no trifle bothered her, no word stuck upon her tongue, her thoughts set on some specific idea that she mulled over without need for company.

  “Let me fix your plate,” Silva said, as the Missus had indeed entered in the middle of dinner when Mr. Kern’s meal sat mostly consumed.

  Silva rushed to the kitchen as I followed, their voices trailing us from that brief distance away, choppy conversations where neither answered more than sufficiently necessary to respond to the other or complete their own thoughts. The Missus laughed loudly on several occasions, although we hadn’t heard the precipitating joke. These haughty snickers seemed greatly exaggerated, though no one knew what to expect from the Missus now that she had returned from the dead. One might so easily believe without a second thought that the young princess had indeed morphed into a pleasant being overnight, as if that knocking at death’s door had made her want to live again.

  “What miracle brought this?” a voice soon said. “I never thought I’d git the pleasure agin.”

  Before any thoughts were with me, I fled the kitchen and made my way inside the dining room. When I arrived, both Floyd and Jesse stood at the opposite door, Floyd with that look of startled joy still upon his face and Jesse unmoved by the unfolding situation, although he still smiled politely in the Missus’s direction. Astonishingly, that good spirit the Missus had developed was not short-lived, and she now smiled and even blushed before Floyd and the boy.

  “Thank you, Floyd,” she said, her eyes far from him. “I feels much better thanks to your sister and her care.”

  Mr. Kern glanced up with a look that was neither grateful nor relieved, for the first time making it easier to decipher his wife’s emotions than his own.

  “I just thanks God that ya here,” Floyd said, clasping his hands together and looking up toward the sky.

  The Missus kept her eyes stayed on Jesse, this powerful creature before her, a boy of such substance that he commanded stares and forced even the bravest soul to cower in fear if, upon accident, he or she stepped too close. To touch his frame was to meet a structure so solid that it seemed almost indestructible, fully encased in flesh that burned warm on contact and hinted at the fire that blazed within. Indeed, he was always warm, even in winter when all around had the protection of heavy coats and gloves, he wore none.

  Miss Lula seemed not to breathe in his presence, as if she feared some type of retribution for these actions, and I feared the poor soul would surely faint from having held her breath for so long. If before there was said to be a lack of purpose in her eyes from that day I’d first met her, then today she was a woman renewed, for from that wretched spirit now came compassion and kindness and, dare I say, love.

  Remembering his business inside the house, Floyd called to Jesse who turned and followed him down the hall without a second glance toward the Missus. Miss Lula seemed unaffected as well, turning her attention toward the door as Silva brought forth a plate of okra, lima beans, and pork chops. The Missus ate quietly with no need for attention, her supper acquiring all her thoughts as she examined the beautiful porcelain that showed at the end of her meal. And though I didn’t condone it, part of me understood the Missus’s wrath for Mr. Kern, recalling that tidbit Floyd divulged to me that evening before he slouched off to bed muttering half awake and half asleep. “Mister didn’t even cry when young Elizabeth died. I don’t think he ever cried a day in his life since tha day he was born. Never will.”

  The Missus, however, had cried on several occasions in my presence. Woefully, she’d sunk her head into her pillow and sobbed, then muttered lonely words and cursed the Mister’s name, but not tonight. No, tonight she wrapped her shawl tightly around her neck as she delighted in the evening’s chill, trapped here like some princess inside a tower, lost in a luxury that came at such an expensive cost, yet she did so with a smile and a conviction that needed no words to define its cause.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Bernie, be pleased,” Miss Lula said as we sat together on the front porch some days following her recovery, her eyes taking note of my repressed tears as I’d glanced at the newspaper she read and noticed the front-page article: Burning.

  Her with her needlework and me with a basket of snap peas that I’d picked and washed, the sun burning hotter every day as summer approached in just-noticeable increments over the cooler morning, drowning it slowly in shorter nights. Darn hummingbird came by, and we watched it for nearly ten minutes
, Miss Lula resting her head on the cushioned part of the rocker while I sat directly on the ground with the basket to my side.

  “Seems like every day there’s something new,” she said with the newspaper opened, her thoughts having careened like this for several days as we’d sat together on that porch. “Don’t make no sense. Wish they would just end it all and everything go back to normal. That’s what I pray.”

  She looked to me for confirmation that I felt the same. But Miss Lula had prayers much different than my own—her prayers born of her circumstance, and mine born from mine, as if there was a white god and a black god depending on the petitioner. And while I knew there was no need of beating your head on the same stubborn stone unless you planned on learning something from it, and that I should just smile like usual, her words still brought nothing but pain to me, as those memories of Henry and our past came to mind as swiftly as his life had likely departed, that life he’d given to me in song and time and love. I said nothing to her, my anguish bursting from the seams and running down my sides, pressured like firemen’s hoses within my pursed lips. I was lost here, forever confined in today and yesterday with no future, a clear view of the trails that bus left behind as my soul swept up in the smoke from its exhaust. Unseen in rearview mirrors, invisible to them like black faces on the pavement, like buoys lost at sea, I could no longer keep quiet.