Crescent City

by Belva Plain

  “He’s a generous husband, Miriam. You must think of that. Your lovely house and this place. Think of all the good things. I’m sure you’ll learn to be happy, dear. It’s within yourself, you know.”

  So not even with Pelagie could she open her heart and mind.

  One rainy morning when Fanny brought breakfast, Miriam saw that she had been crying. Fanny’s emotions had always reflected Miriam’s joys or griefs, never her own. This startling realization flashed through Miriam’s head.

  “What is it, Fanny?”

  The girl struggled. “It’s Blaise. The master wants to send him away.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “It’s so. Master says there’s no work for Blaise, not enough for him to do. Blaise has been crying. We’ve been together since we were born, Miss Miriam.” Fanny swept her apron up to hide her face.

  “Where does he want to send him?”

  “To some friend of his. I don’t remember the name.” Fanny’s voice was muffled under the apron. “Somebody moving to Texas, he said. I don’t know where Texas is, but they say it’s far.”

  Miriam got out of bed. “Bring me a dress, Fanny. Hurry and do my hair fast. Where is Mr. Mendes?”

  “In the library he was.”

  Miriam trembled. She had no idea how she would do it, but she was certain on the instant of one thing: This was not going to happen to Fanny.

  Eugene was reading letters at his desk. He looked up, annoyed at the interruption.

  Miriam was still trembling. Nevertheless, she demanded, “What are you doing to Blaise?”

  “Doing? Oh, my God, has that Fanny of yours gone crying to you? Don’t tell me. I’ve been wrestling with his tears all morning.”

  “They have a right to their tears. Do you know what their life has been? What it was until they came to my father’s house? Their father was—”

  “Don’t bother to tell me, please. I’ve heard these stories a hundred times. Misery, misery. I’m not responsible for their past miseries.”

  “You could help make up for them, though,” she replied, surprising herself with the sharpness of her tone.

  The black eyebrows slithered upward. To her farther surprise, Eugene defended himself.

  “What do you want of me? I treat my people well. You’ve never seen me lay a hand on anyone. True or not?”

  “True, but—”

  “But nothing. I’m not running a charity. If I have no use for a person, I have no use. And I’m not going to keep him on, feeding and clothing him, when he’s not earning his keep.”

  “Surely you could find something for Blaise to do. Surely the food he eats isn’t going to make us poor.” The pain in Fanny’s eyes drove her on; she felt Fanny’s cause as though it were her own.

  “You know they all exaggerate, don’t you? When they don’t lie, they exaggerate. They’re all hysterical. Blaise will have a good home where he’s going and Fanny will get over it. They won’t die of the separation. They won’t be the first brother and sister to be separated. Aren’t you separated from your brother?”

  “That’s different, Mr. Mendes, and you know it is.” This mention of David emboldened her further.

  “If he were here, David would understand.”

  She had almost forgotten how, long ago, her brother had been fired by what had seemed an exaggerated anger. Now she remembered that fire.

  “David would not do this to them,” she said.

  Eugene stood up. “Ah, so it’s your brother, is it? You’re turning out like him, are you?”

  “What do you know about my brother? You’ve never even met him.”

  “No, but I’ve heard plenty,” Eugene said grimly. “He and his loose-tongued kind don’t know what they’re talking about. Do you want blood to flow here? Do you want to see the house burned to the ground?”

  “I don’t understand you. All I asked is that you don’t send Blaise away. That’s all I ask. Is it so hard to do one simple kindness?”

  “One so-called simple kindness after the other. Where’s the money to come from? The way I feed my people—”

  “Cornmeal, salt pork, and molasses.”

  “What should they eat, then? They eat what country people eat. Go see what a white farmer puts on his table! The poor are poor everywhere. Can we feed them all from our table?”

  That was true: The poor were the poor, as they had been in the Europe that she still remembered. Here, though, the poor whites came to the door, not begging, but demanding. Under their poke bonnets the women’s eyes were scornful and Eugene always gave.

  “You know I do what I can,” he said.

  Sometimes when the fanners “got in the grass,” when the weeds threatened to choke out the cotton plants, he sent them help to do their weeding and save the crop.

  “You know I do what I can,” he repeated, and she saw that he was agitated, that in some way she had reached him.

  “Do you know how some other people treat their servants? No, I suppose you don’t. Well, I’ll tell you so you won’t think I’m such a monster. Have you never heard of the iron collar? The head enclosed between three iron prongs so that the neck can’t turn? Do you know that runaways have been tied naked to a tree and lashed? Or—”

  “That’s enough! Please.”

  “Well, then! I treat honorably, I trade honorably, and I don’t need interference in my affairs.”

  She had caught a word. “You trade?”

  “It’s not my main business, certainly not. But once in a while if a gang should be sent down from Virginia, for instance, and I can make a quick turnover, I do. I’ve never dealt with smugglers or anything outside the law, and I can swear to that, which is more than some of your most respected families like your Aunt Emma’s people can do.”

  She faltered. “But you’re a Jew!”

  “I am a southerner, of the South. My people have been in this country for two centuries. We old Spanish families helped to build it. Go to Charleston, to Savannah, and you’ll see.” He drew himself straight. “I shouldn’t have allowed this discussion to go so far, and you should know a woman’s place.”

  A woman’s place! Once, perhaps more than once, during the courtship, he had admired her spirit, as on that fateful afternoon when, with Emma, she had been conducted through his house. Now all he expected of her was submission. Anger met shame and burned like fire in her throat.

  Then she thought of Fanny’s sorrowful eyes. She thought of Blaise, a young man weeping, standing here before the authority of this other man, and weeping. And suddenly she knew what she had to do.

  She got down on her knees. When her voice came it was so faint that Eugene had to stoop to hear it.

  “Please. I beg of you. Don’t send Blaise away. He could …” She swallowed. “My time is almost here. If we have a boy you could give Blaise to him. He’s a gentleman. He would be a good servant to bring up a boy.”

  “Get up, Mrs. Mendes, will you, for heaven’s sake? Don’t be dramatic.” Eugene held his hand out to raise her, but she grasped the arm of the chair instead and pulled herself up.

  He walked to the desk, turned over a paper, and coughed while she stood waiting.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I had not thought of that. You may be right. He would be ideal for a boy.”

  “You’ll keep him, then? You’ll tell them that?”

  “I’ll keep him only until we know about the child. If we have a son, then, yes, he may stay.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mendes. Thank you.”

  So if it’s a daughter, she thought, as she went upstairs, I shall simply have to think of something else. For the time being she had won.

  Oh, she thought, I wish I did not know I would have to live out my life in this country, where things like this happen every day and the government allows them.

  She was very, very tired, with a weariness and a confusion in the depths of her soul. Best not to think about anything more just now. Best just to close her mind and drift through the days
.

  Autumn, the season of russet leaves and the turkey hunt, approached. This year there was no cooling of the air; instead, the heat mounted, and in the city the Asiatic choleras appeared, adding to the annual horror of yellow fever. All who could and who had not already fled the city, did so now. But for some it was too late.

  Eugene brought in a letter. “This just came by boat. It’s from Rosa de Rivera—bad news. Henry’s dead of the fever. They ought to have stayed longer in Saratoga. Very poor judgment.”

  A chill shook Miriam. This was her first experience with death. No one she knew had ever just disappeared, just vanished. Who would sit in Henry’s chair at the long table? Kindly, quiet self-effacing Henry! And poor Rosa! For all her lively, brisk importance, the real source of her strength had come from Henry.

  “I shall have to find myself a new lawyer,” Eugene said. “Too bad. He was honest and clever. Unfortunately, those don’t always go together, either.” He tapped the desktop, a habit he had when making a decision. “So. We won’t go back as planned on the first of the month. You’ll have to be confined here. We’ll summon Dr. Roget. He bought a plantation upriver after he retired. Manufactures rum. But I daresay he hasn’t forgotten how to deliver a baby.”

  She was enormous, unable to bend and button her strapped slippers.

  Abby, the chambermaid, remarked darkly, “Might be you having twins, missus. I remember my Auntie Flo died birthing twins. Screamed two days and three nights before she died. It was awful, I stopped my ears. Those twins like to tore her in half before she died. You sees my Auntie Flo’s boys running round here, two big healthy rascals.”

  Fanny was angry. “Don’t listen to her, Miss Miriam. Didn’t the butterfly sit on your arm yesterday? That’s a good sign, always a good sign.”

  She wanted not to be afraid. When Pelagie came to visit, Miriam told her of the newspaper article about Queen Victoria, who had taken chloroform when her last child was born.

  “They say it’s miraculous. One feels no pain, nothing at all. I wish Dr. Roget knew something about it. No one here does.”

  Pelagie thought it was wrong. “It’s not moral. It’s against nature. You’re supposed to feel pain. If you weren’t supposed to, you wouldn’t. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  No, it did not. How stupid to believe that whatever is must be right! Well, that was Pelagie. And yet, to be fair, Pelagie was not really stupid, she was merely unaccustomed to thinking for herself. It came down to that.

  Anyway, it didn’t befit Miriam to judge Pelagie’s reasoning powers. She wasn’t above some fuzzy, credulous thoughts of her own, like reading omens in nature’s faces. After a gray week during which a melancholy rain dripped steadily from every tree and eave, suddenly one noon the sun pierced the clouds and gray brightened into silver. Not an hour afterward, as if the sunshine had been its herald, David’s letter arrived.

  I’m coming home by the first ship that leaves for New Orleans. Now that I’ve finished and can sign myself “Doctor,” I’ve made a decision that will surprise you and I hope make you happy. I’m coming back to stay.

  “I can’t imagine,” Miriam cried, “what made him change his mind! Do you know it’s eight yeans since we’ve seen him? Oh, Papa will be so glad! And he must already be on the way. But whatever made him change his mind? He was so against everything here.”

  “Apparently,” Eugene said, “he has acquired some sense.”

  Immediately she was indignant. “He always had sense. You only know what you’ve been told about David.” She began to worry. “I do hope now that Papa and he will finally get along. Perhaps I should talk to Papa and pave the way, so they’ll start out right together.”

  “You’re too sensitive for your own good. You can’t take your family’s business on your shoulders. They’ll manage their own affairs. Besides,” Eugene said, “in a few weeks now you’ll have another responsibility.”

  Toward dawn of a foggy autumn morning Miriam’s labor began. At first she thought it was the harsh call of crows that had awakened her. Then something twisted, rolling in her tautened belly, and she cried out. Fanny came running and Eugene sent Blaise for the doctor. So it started.

  As the sun broke through the fog and mounted the sky, pain mounted with it. It came in spirals, rising and breaking. Closer and faster, faster and closer, the spirals rose. On the descent the rate was slower; she could see yellow stripes of sunlight across the ceiling and her own arm lying weakly on the sheet. Then came the rise again, and the world reduced itself to the pit of the belly, where the battle was being fought. On the descent she saw herself as she was being seen: a shameful thing; above all she must not lose dignity; her cries must not be heard through the house or past the window. She rammed her fist into her mouth: I will not scream, I will not scream, I will bear it.

  Eugene’s face looked down at her. There were the eyebrows, the black caterpillars. She screamed. “Get out! Leave me! Go! Get out!”

  “She doesn’t recognize you,” Fanny whispered, apologizing.

  They fastened a sheet to the bedpost, making a rope. “Pull! Pull!” Fanny urged. The bed creaked, the very wood complaining of Miriam’s strength. Fanny wiped her slippery hands and her forehead. She touched softly, she spoke softly.

  Fanny is saying something, but I don’t understand the words. Things flash in and out. The doctor’s eyes blink, he doesn’t know what to do, that’s the trouble, he doesn’t know what to do. Oh, God, oh, terrible.

  The sun goes around the house. It feels like evening. Water, she whispers. Her lips don’t move, they’re dry, they feel enormous. She feels Fanny’s arm around her shoulders; she feels the chill in her mouth and swallows. Pain soars and lifts her high, high, higher, then throws her down. It won’t ever end.

  She opens her eyes into a blazing light. “Close the blinds,” someone says, “the sun bothers her.” So it must be morning again. It won’t ever end.

  She turns, turns on the pillow. At the side of the bed on the table there burns a veilleuse; the candle flickers inside the porcelain shape of a lady wearing a ballgown and a powdered wig. Silly lady! She doesn’t know anything. But the candle burning? Then, it must be night again.

  A man’s voice says: Two days now. Is it the doctor’s or Eugene’s? It makes no difference.

  Far off past the window there is a persistent rhythm, drumming and clacking. The man’s voice—it must be Eugene’s—cries: Tell them to stop that racket, this is no time for a racket.

  “Rib bones,” she says distinctly.

  “She’s raving.”

  No, no, not raving. Rib bones. Over in the quarters they make castanets out of rib bones. Leave them alone. Let them make music. Is she saying it or only thinking it?

  Another spiral raises and flings her, crashes and smashes her, against a wall. And again. And again. How long?

  The lamp throws a shadow on the ceiling. The shadow runs like water, racing as the candle is moved and is held high. It shines into her face, flickering, wavering, dancing, bobbing. A face looks down on hers, slips into the light and out of it. Eyes come into focus. She strains to see. Eyes in deep sockets, anxious eyes in a white elongated goblin’s face, slipping in and out of shadow. David’s face. Now I am raving, she thinks quite clearly.

  Words come out of the face. “It’s David, Miriam. I’m here.”

  She hears another voice—her own voice?—cracking, whispering denial. “No. Not you. Not really you.”

  “Yes, dear, yes. Really me. I’m going to help you.”

  Something passes in swift glimmer from hand to hand, some sharp metal thing. A knife? A sword? What are they going to do with it? She screams. The cords of her neck pull tight with the terror of her scream.

  “Miriam. Lie back. Don’t be afraid. Just close your eyes.”

  Something, a hand or a cloth, something light lies over her nose.

  “Now breathe, dear. Breathe deeply. Don’t be afraid.”

  A morning light, healthy and clean, washed the room. O
n white pillows, eased and delivered, Miriam rested. Two swaddled infants lay in twin baskets next to her bed.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they, David?”

  “Very. A handsome pair.”

  “Eugene and Angelique. I so much wanted to name her Hannah, but Eugene wants Angelique after his mother.”

  Why not Hannah for my mother? The boy is named after you.

  Hannah is an ugly name for a homely girl. My mother was beautiful.

  Aunt Emma said, There’s no point arguing with your husband, Miriam. After all, these are his firstborn, he has a right.

  His firstborn? Not mine?

  Fanny is more clever. Give in, he’ll make you miserable if you don’t. A name’s not worth it.

  She had been firm about nursing, however.

  “Eugene wanted to find wet-nurses to take back to the city with us next month,” she told David now, “but I shall nurse my own, I told him so.”

  “Good for you,” David said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Tell me,” she said softly, “tell me what happened yesterday. I can’t remember anything, it’s such a blur. I only know you came in time. I couldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  He did not deny that. “I know. We’ve chloroform to thank. That’s why I was able to use forceps. It’s a miracle and a mercy.”

  “You’ve learned so much!” she marveled.

  He shook his head. “We’ve a long way to go. This is only a beginning.”

  She studied his face. So long since she had seen him! And as much as she herself had changed, he had changed more. The fire in him seemed to have died away. He was calm and positive. Wearing spectacles, with deep parallel lines on his forehead and a new manner, he was almost sedate. She concluded that the life in New York and the weight of his profession must have done these things to him.

  “You can’t know how I have been hoping you would come!” she cried, almost tearfully.

  “We had violent storms on the way, ran aground near Mobile. I felt like jumping off and pushing the ship, I was so impatient to get here.” David’s eyes were wet, too. “Anyway, here I am! And can you guess who’s come with me? Gabriel. He’s downstairs now.”