“He seven,” she said.
He ran his hand through the boy’s wild red hair. “Doesn’t anyone ever comb his hair?” he asked.
“He won’ stand for it.”
My husband looked into Walter’s mad face, feeding him another bit of muffin to keep his attention. “No,” he said approvingly. “Why should he?”
Walter’s eyes opened wide; he brought his face close to his father’s, swallowed the last bite, and shouted “Poo-poo, poo-poo” at the top of his lungs. Sarah jumped away from the sideboard, grabbed the horrid creature by one arm, and dragged him toward the doors. “He have to go out,” she said. When the doors were open, he scurried across the bricks into the azaleas and squatted down in the dirt.
“A charming child,” I observed.
Sarah closed the doors and resumed her post at the sideboard. “More coffee,” I said.
My husband looked abashed. It delighted me to see him trying to make his dull brain work over the problem presented by this monster he has brought among us. “So he can speak?” he said.
“Delphine taught him that.”
“Can he say anything else?”
“Maybe Delphine understand him sometime.”
“But you don’t.”
Sarah studied his face for a moment without speaking. Then she said, “Delphine say he don’t hear.”
“He’s deaf,” my husband said softly, as if a deep revelation had just come to him. Then, tersely, “I shall send for Dr. Landry today.”
I RARELY VISIT in town because I can’t bear my mother’s prying into the state of my marriage, her constant insinuations about my failure to conceive a child. For a few years I didn’t mind, I even felt a mild curiosity about it myself; as I explained to Mother, it wasn’t for lack of trying. She cherished the hope that the fault was with my husband, and I foolishly did too, until Walter was born. Then I knew the reason. In a way, Walter is the reason, but I could speak to no one about it. In the fifth year of my marriage, Mother and my husband consulted a doctor reputed to have helped other childless couples, and then there was no living with either of them until I agreed to be examined by this man. So I went to town and, at the appointed time, presented myself at the offices of Dr. Gabriel Sanchez.
He was a small, swarthy man, his thin hair gray at the temples, his eyes slightly crossed; perhaps one eye was only weak. I was required to undress behind a screen, wrapped in sheets by a nurse, then partially unwrapped, my modesty consulted to absurd lengths. The physical examination was extremely repugnant, but I did not object to it. I thought if I would submit, the doctor might find some physical reason for my failure to conceive, thereby freeing me of my detested conjugal duties, and also putting an end to my mother’s tiresome queries. When it was over, a girl was sent in to help me dress and I was escorted into the office where Dr. Sanchez awaited me. It was a surprisingly sunny room. The floor was covered with a rush mat; the chairs were in summer covers. The doctor motioned me into one facing his desk, which was really a table covered with papers, books, and, oddly enough, a potted geranium. As I took my seat I noticed a large wrought-iron cage hanging from a chain near the open window in which two canaries hopped about. During our conversation, one of these birds sang plaintively.
He began well. He told me that he was obliged to ask me a number of personal questions, and that I could be assured my answers would not travel beyond the walls of his office, that in particular he would not repeat anything I said to my mother or my husband. I found the darting, unfocused looks he gave me reassuring, and I made up my mind to tell him whatever he wanted to know. I wanted to enlist him on my side. He asked about my monthly discharges, were they regular, copious, clotted, or clear, attended by pain or swelling? He asked about my general health, my diet, how much riding I did, if I ever suffered from dizziness or fainting spells. As my health has always been excellent, I answered these questions readily, nor could he have been much surprised at my responses. He listened closely, occasionally making a note in a leather-bound book he had open before him.
Then he questioned me about my marriage, and in particular about my sexual congress with my husband. How often did our relations take place, did I experience pain, was there ever bleeding afterward? He asked most delicately if I was certain that my husband ejaculated into my womb, a question which made me laugh, though I could not look at him and felt a hot flush rising in my cheeks. “I apologize for being so indelicate,” he said, “but I have known cases of infertility caused by inadequate knowledge on the part of the husband.”
“My husband knows very well how babies are made, I assure you,” I said coldly.
He fiddled with his pen and made no answer. I looked past him at the window where the bird was singing. There was a plantain tree just outside with a big bruised purple pod of unripe fruit hanging from it. One of the leaves lay across the windowsill like a fold of impossibly bright satin. I thought of my husband’s embraces, so urgent and disagreeable, his kneading and sucking at my breasts until the nipples hurt, his fingers probing between my legs, his harsh breath in my face.
“I see no physical reason why you can’t have a child,” the doctor said at last.
“No,” I agreed. “There is no physical reason.”
“Do you want children, Mrs. Gaudet?”
I gave this question thought. I had assumed I would have children, the question of whether I wanted them had never occurred to me. What sort of woman doesn’t want children? Dr. Sanchez waited upon my answer, but he had a calm, patient air about him, as if he wouldn’t mind waiting forever. Suppose I had married a man like him, I thought, a man who knew everything about women’s bodies and was never impatient. I arrived at my answer. “No,” I said.
He nodded, pressing his lips together. He had known all along. “Do you fear the pain of childbirth?”
“No,” I said.
“Perhaps you feel anxiety about the disfigurement of pregnancy?”
“That passes, surely,” I said.
“There is some other reason,” he concluded.
“Yes,” I said. He produced a handkerchief, picked up a pair of eyeglasses that lay upon a stack of books on his desk, and began methodically rubbing the lenses. “It is because I despise my husband,” I said.
He looked up at me briefly, but without surprise, then returned his attention to his eyeglasses. “Unhappy marriages still produce children,” he said.
“Perhaps they are not unhappy enough,” I replied.
“Has it occurred to you that a child might be a comfort to you in your suffering?”
“I am not in need of comforting,” I said.
He put the glasses down and gave me his full, unfocused attention. “Did you love your husband when you married him?” he asked.
“I hardly knew him. Ours was considered an advantageous match.”
“And how did he earn your enmity?”
“Well, let me think,” I said. “Would the fact that the servant I brought to the marriage has borne him a son, and that this creature is allowed to run loose in the house like a wild animal, would that be, in your view, sufficient cause for a wife to despise her husband?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Gaudet, there are many such cases. This cannot be unknown to you.”
“That is precisely my grievance,” I explained. “That it is common.”
“Why not sell the girl?”
“No. He would only find another. And this one suits me. She hates him as much as I do.”
I saw a flicker of sympathy cross his expression, but I didn’t think it was for me. He was feeling pity for my husband, trapped between two furies. “Well,” he said. “God willing, you will have a child. You’re young, in good health.”
“That’s what I fear,” I said. “That’s why I consented to see you. I want you to tell my husband that I cannot bear children. That it endangers my life even to try.”
“You want me to lie? I would never do that.”
“Not to save my life?” I said desperate
ly.
“Your life is not in danger.”
Against my will, tears sprang to my eyes. I felt one of my headaches tightening across my forehead. I drew my handkerchief from my sleeve and pressed it against each eye. Dr. Sanchez was speaking, but I could hardly make out what he was saying through the awful red clamp of pain. It was something about a child, my child, who would secure my husband’s affections to me. “Can’t you at least give me something for these headaches?” I blurted out, interrupting him.
He paused, midsentence, as if to draw attention to my rudeness, but I no longer cared what he thought of me. “And something to make me sleep,” I added.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That much I can do for you.”
WHILE WE WERE at dinner, a boy arrived with a note from Dr. Landry saying there was cholera at Overton and he could not come to us until supper. “You must tell him our case is not urgent,” I said. “He will be exhausted if he has to make the trip back there before morning.”
“Why should he?” my husband said. “He can stay here and have a decent night’s sleep, instead of being up a hundred times in the night to bleed hysterical negroes.”
“You wouldn’t say so if they were your own negroes,” I observed.
“If they were my negroes, I’d move the quarter up from that swamp they’re in at Overton, and there would be no cholera, as there is none here.”
This is one of his favorite pastimes, pointing out that everyone’s troubles are their own fault and if the whole world would only submit to his excellent management, it would be an earthly paradise. It bores me past endurance. I pushed my plate away and got up from the table. “I must speak to Delphine about supper,” I said. As I went out, Sarah was coming in with a plate of rice cakes. She had a smirk on her face, pleased with herself, I thought, because Walter was going to get the doctor’s attention. I went through the house, out the back door, across the yard, and in at the kitchen. Delphine had her back to me, rolling out some dough at the table. The fire was up, the room stifling. I threw myself down in a chair, startling her momentarily. “It’s hell in here,” I said. “How can you stand it?”
“Can’t cook without fire,” she said, continuing her rolling.
“Give me a glass of water before I faint.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the pump. I seldom go into the kitchen, but whenever I do, in spite of the heat, I feel more at ease than in my own room. Delphine is the only person in this house I trust at all. She reminds me of Peek, my mother’s cook; they are both small, very dark, lively, jittery, but sensible at bottom. She brought me the water glass, wiping the rim with her apron. “They’s flour on the glass,” she said.
“I don’t care,” I said, gulping it down. She took up her pin again. “The doctor is coming to supper tonight,” I said. “It’s too hot to eat, but he probably will. He’s a big man.”
“Doctor got a good appetite,” she agreed.
“Get a ham from the smokehouse,” I said. “Just serve it cold. Cold potatoes dressed with vinegar, biscuits, pickled peaches, and applesauce. What pie are you making?”
“Rhubarb.”
“That’s so plain,” I said.
“I can mix in some strawberries.”
“All right,” I said. “Serve some whipped cream with it. It will have to do.” I went through my keys. “Here’s the smokehouse key,” I said, laying it on the end of the table. “Send it back with Sarah when you’re done.”
“Yes, missus,” she said.
I thought I would get up to go, but I felt so languid I didn’t move. I looked out the door at the yard. A chicken walked by. Everything felt peaceful; then I recalled why.
“Where’s Walter?” I said.
“Out running ’round,” she said.
“Is that safe?”
“Rose look after him,” she said.
“It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the property.”
Delphine draped her dough over the pie pan and turned to look into a pot on the hearth.
“Make sure he’s inside by supper,” I said. “The doctor is going to examine him.”
“Yes, missus,” she said.
I got up and stretched, then wandered out into the yard. I couldn’t take the hot kitchen another minute. I was thinking about the man, but I wasn’t going to say anything to Delphine about him. Perhaps he was her lover. I walked out to the oak where I had seen him and looked among the roots for any shoe prints or anything he might have dropped, but there was nothing. I stood exactly where I thought he had stood and looked up at the house. I could see my bedroom window—one curtain was fluttering half outside in the breeze—and my husband’s window as well. When I looked at the kitchen yard I could see right into the open door. By turning a little, I could see the top of the mill and the dirt road running to the quarter. Quite an excellent command post.
I looked back at my own window. The curtains seemed to be moving against something heavy, then they parted and Sarah appeared, holding her baby. She saw me at once, but she didn’t start or turn away. She just stood there, her dress half-opened, looking down at me coolly. She’s a nerveless creature, I thought. There really is something inhuman about her. After a few moments I grew weary of looking at her and went back into the house.
DR. LANDRY IS a walking newspaper. He knows everything that is happening from St. Francisville to Pointe à la Hache. All through supper he dispensed interesting gossip, yet he still managed to eat nearly half a ham. The cholera at Overton is confined to the quarters; of sixty-three taken, sixteen have died. It is worse in New Orleans, and there is yellow fever there as well. The hospital is full, the hotels empty. Mrs. Pemberly, near Clinton, has scarlet fever and is so weak the doctor does not expect her to live. The lawsuit her daughter-in-law brought against her son has proved successful and she anticipates the loss of half her property. Two negroes have drowned in False River. They had passes to visit their families and, seeing a skiff in the weeds, must have thought to arrive with a fish dinner, but the boat proved leaky and they turned dinner for the fishes. Two runaways were captured at St. Francisville, walking around drunk in broad daylight. There was a fire at Mr. Winthrop’s gin at Greenwood, set by his own negroes. One of the culprits informed on the others and escaped beating. The fire consumed eighty bales of cotton as well. There are so many rumors of planned uprisings at Bayou Sara that the authorities have banned all church meetings of any kind, as it seems one of the preachers may be responsible for inciting the negroes. One story has it that there are three hundred runaways hidden in the low country near there and that they plan to march down the river road killing every white person they find.
“They would come right past here,” my husband exclaimed on hearing this.
“That they would,” Dr. Landry agreed. “If the rumors are true.”
“I will inform my meeting,” my husband said, solemn and pompous as an ass. This is how rumors turn into dead negroes.
After supper Dr. Landry agreed to examine Walter, who was described as “a boy we have here.” My husband expressed the hope that some use might be made of the child as a servant, which was entirely news to me. My heart raced with anger, then I imagined Walter pitching dishes out the window and dumping mashed potatoes on the carpet, a thought I found so amusing it calmed me down. They agreed the examination would take place in my husband’s office, and Sarah was dispatched to bring the creature there. I made my excuses to the gentlemen, and said good night to the doctor at the dining room door, but instead of going to my room, I went back to the table. After a few minutes, Sarah came in to clear up. She was doubtless vexed to see me still sitting there.
“Pour me a glass of that port the gentlemen found so edifying,” I said, and she did. Then I sat quietly for some time, drinking the port and thinking over the news the doctor had brought us. What interested me most was the success of Sally Pemberly’s lawsuit against her husband. She divorced him some years ago, because he was so cruel even the servants pitied her.
He then ran up large gambling debts, bankrupting himself as well as his family. Sally sued to have her marriage portion, which was considerable, exempted from his creditors and restored to her. By some miracle, she has won. Now she has her own income and she is free of her detestable husband. Fortunate woman!
I WOKE UP with a start, thinking someone was standing next to my bed, but there was no one there. Had I heard a sound? The room was black. I could make out the curtains at the window but little else. At once I remembered the man. I pulled back the net and sat on the edge of the bed, groggy but determined, shaking my head to clear it. Then I went to the window.
It was like looking into the inkwell. I could make out the shape of the oak, but only as texture, like black velvet against black silk. Was there something among the roots? I dropped down to my knees, as I thought my white shift, my light hair, made me visible, and gazed long and hard. Still my eyes failed to penetrate the darkness. Did something move, there, near the house? Listen, I told myself and I closed my eyes, listening as what had seemed like silence unraveled into different sounds, the buzz of insects, the clock in the hall, something scratching in the wall, the rustling of leaves and branches, and then, just beyond my own heartbeat, not near or loud, but sudden and unmistakable, the sound of a rifle shot.
Property (Vintage Contemporaries) Page 4