37
Angel the Coy Mistress
MRS. HATTERBY USUALLY stayed upstairs during her husband’s parties. Too many people in one place made her perspire and feel nervous, and she often claimed to be with child, though the obvious signs rarely materialized. Mrs. Hatterby had birthed two premature babies over the past five years, but Angel hardly remembered or thought of them. She didn’t know, for instance, whether they had been boys or girls, whether they’d lived a couple of weeks or only a few hours. Their births and passings had been so quick, and Angel’s own health had been so dire, that she couldn’t recall exactly. And Angel wasn’t sure whether the deaths were natural or not. And now, at fifteen years old, her own body seemed more interesting to her than that of her mother. She spun in front of mirrors, noting bulges and curves that weren’t there before.
Angel was relieved when her mother chose to stay in bed. Even though her mother no longer bothered her about drinking the soup or confining her to her room, Angel felt an odd commiseration with the woman, as though she herself had somehow been responsible for her mother’s illnesses, her own sicknesses, or maybe even the deaths of the babies. Angel didn’t know. The presence of her mother made her perspire and feel nervous, and right now she wanted to dress. She wanted to be beautiful. She loved to be beautiful.
Angel chose for this party a peach gown with tiny green leaves embroidered all around the bodice. The sleeves were brown velvet, as was the trim at the hem. Angel thought this dress looked like the natural world. As she dressed, the piano music made the floor beneath her feet vibrate. It excited her to think that Davis was in her house. It excited her to think that Davis would be looking at her. She looked in the mirror. She licked her finger and then smeared some stray hairs away from the neat part she had made. There. Perfect. She put on her white gloves. She selected a flowered fan from her collection.
As a dutiful daughter, she first went down the hall to her mother’s room and knocked lightly.
“Come in, dear,” said her mother. Angel opened the door and went in. Her mother was sitting up in bed with a blanket pulled up over her. She was paging through a picture book.
“Hello, Mother,” said Angel. She curtsied. “What are you reading?”
“Sit down with me for a moment, dear.” She rested the book face-down over her belly. It was the same one she always looked at, The Married Woman’s Companion. She couldn’t read, and Angel could recognize only a few words, but they both liked to browse through books and newspapers, especially those with pictures of dresses and ads for slippers, corsets, and stockings. Mrs. Hatterby patted the bed.
Angel approached and sat down. Her mother’s sanctuary smelled of decayed flowers and sour feet.
“I love the sound of silks as they move,” said her mother. “Are you happy about the party?” She straightened Angel’s already-straight belt.
“Yes,” said Angel.
“You like parties?” Her mother squinted at the belt, as though something about it perplexed her.
“Sometimes.” Angel looked at it too and found it to be perfect.
“You’re growing up, Angel. Soon it will be time to find you a husband.”
Angel sat up straight. She took her mother’s hand.
“Then you’ll leave me too,” said her mother. “Then no one will be here at all who loves me. There will be no one here to take care of me.” She squeezed Angel’s hand hard, her sharp nails like little reminders of all they’d endured together. Angel remembered a time when Clement had clutched her hand in a similar way.
“I’ll always take care of you, Mother,” Angel said. “I promise.”
“I hope so, dear.” She let go of Angel’s hand. “I remember the day I took you away from that awful place. I shudder to think what could have become of you if I hadn’t saved you. You’d be a dirty, motherless urchin. But never mind. And never speak of your origins to anyone,” said her mother. “No properly bred or moneyed man would marry a girl out of the poorhouse, with unknown origins. Sometimes when I look at you, I wonder about the nasty woman who left you. I wonder if she was a savage or some other kind. You’ve got such dark hair and eyes. Be sure to always powder your skin. Keep it light.”
“Yes,” said Angel. She wanted to ask about her real mother, to know who she was. She wanted to ask about Clement too, to find out why they looked so much alike. She wanted to know every small detail of her own birth, but she was afraid to know too.
“I suppose you’re eager to leave me and get to the party.” Her mother’s mouth formed a tight smile, but her eyes were piercing.
Angel said, “No, Mother. I’ll stay with you as long as you like.”
“No,” her mother said. “Go on. Enjoy yourself. You look so beautiful. You must take advantage of this fleeting beauty before it’s gone.” She laughed. “Look at what’s happened to me.”
Angel did. Her mother was still quite beautiful. Fair skinned. Pink lipped. But her green eyes flickered with unsettling intimidation. “You’re the most beautiful mother in the world. Sleep well,” said Angel.
“How can anyone sleep with that saloon music in the house?” her mother said. “Kiss me before you go.” She reached out her arms to Angel.
When Angel leaned over to peck her mother’s cheek, the woman grabbed the back of Angel’s head, pulled her hair, and pressed Angel’s face to her chest. At first Angel resisted, but then went still, though she panted a little.
“Listen, Angel,” said her mother. She pushed Angel’s face hard to her bony chest. “That is the beating of a broken heart.” Then she let her go, waved for Angel to depart, and picked up her book.
Angel rushed out of the room.
In the hall, she leaned against the wall and caught her breath. She straightened her hair and stifled a sob. She thought about running away, about how to escape this house.
She felt guilty for thinking such things. The woman was, after all, her mother. She had made many, many sacrifices for Angel. She thought about Davis. Angel knew she couldn’t marry a Negro, but still felt tied to him somehow.
Angel descended the staircase to the compliments of her father’s friends and to the consternation of their wives. Angel was too pretty for them to like her. She smiled at them, insincerely and shyly, in a way that showed off her small teeth and hurt her cheeks. Angel mingled among her father’s guests, acting the hostess. She listened as the men argued over the details of a treaty with an Indian band called the Ho-Chunk and the ignorance or intelligence of chiefs named The Coming Thunder and One That Stands and Reaches the Skies, who had agreed to forfeit the lands and payments to any among their group who were ill-behaved, drunk, or unsuccessful as farmers. She eavesdropped as the men debated the righteousness of the actions of a violent abolitionist named John Brown, the legality of the freedom claims made by a slave named Dred Scott, the impact of a book called Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which had supposedly made Queen Victoria cry, the bloody implications of the Kansas and Nebraska Act, the probability that the civil war in Kansas would spread to all the states and territories, the certainty of statehood for Minnesota, the rules of a new kind of game called rounders, or baseball, and all kinds of wild and wonderful things happening in the world. Angel wanted, more than anything, to ask questions, to know more. She watched her father carefully and admired the passion with which he spoke. His words sometimes sounded like poems or sermons. Once in a while, she saw the other men roll their eyes, though, and she wondered why. Their apparent disloyalty made her angry. But it also made her study her father more closely. She searched for signs of disingenuousness in his words. He looked as honest as he did when he kissed the top of her head and said that the smell of it was what brought him back home again and again.
She found the men’s attractive wives and asked about their children, about who made their hats and where they’d found their perfume. They answered politely but shortly and returned the same small smile she gave them. Behind her back, she heard the women whisper about her crazy mother, saw them rai
se their eyes toward the stairs, where they correctly supposed the crazy woman was kept.
She excused herself to give directions to the cooks, the maids. She did all the things a proper hostess should do, all the while withholding her gaze from Davis. She sensed his presence but did not look directly at him. She turned her back to the piano and tried to ignore him. She tried to start conversations with the wives again. The sister of Thomas Lawrence, a wealthy lumber baron, remarked to her about the song Davis played. Then Angel turned to look upon him. He was already mooning at her.
Angel ran her fingers over the ribs of her fan and wondered if Davis knew what it meant—“I’m thinking of you.” She decided he probably didn’t. Later, she brought the fan to her forehead and used it to swipe away stray hairs and then fanned herself quickly—“My heart is yours.” I wouldn’t do such things if he understood, she told herself. I wouldn’t behave so forwardly. But to express these feelings in some way felt good. She couldn’t talk of it. The memory of how she had once spoken with Clement through her thoughts passed through her mind, but she blinked it away. She didn’t want to think of those days anymore. Those were childish days and these were not.
Around eleven, she excused herself to retire to her room, as proper etiquette required of young ladies. The party went on for another couple of hours. When at last the music stopped and the voices quieted and only the sounds of the servants cleaning up could be heard, Angel sneaked down the stairs and out the kitchen door. She looked around in the dark. Finally, someone stepped from the shadows.
“I wait out here after every party, hoping you’ll come out and talk to me,” whispered Davis.
Her skin prickled. She reached out. “It’s so dark, I can hardly see you. Where are you?”
Then she felt a hand take hold of hers. His skin was mealy, but she didn’t mind. She rubbed her thumb over his hand. Calluses hardened his fingertips. His hold was strong but gentle too. It was warm and large. It felt safe and strong. It felt new and essential. It was perfect. They stood that way, not speaking, until the kitchen lamps were lit for the morning chores. They barely spoke except to note a falling star or the sound of night animals moving.
At first light, Angel let go and waved goodbye. She went inside and walked directly past the nosy housekeeper. Angel had a brief notion to barter with the woman for her silence but decided not to. More and more, especially since the release of her nanny, she’d noticed the servants seemed to collude with her. She hoped that sitting outside the whole night with a Negro wasn’t pushing the boundaries. Maybe the housekeeper hadn’t seen him. But for now, Angel didn’t want to ruin the moment, the first wholly happy time she’d had since she’d gone to school, since she’d played with Clement. She decided that all the waiting was worth it. She’d choose one night with Davis over every day with Clement, every time. She wondered if that was cruel. She couldn’t care. This was different. She wanted to keep the memory of Davis’s hand in hers for the rest of her life. But she wondered if maybe she too lacked sincerity, like the men at the party or the women who’d smile at her and whisper once she turned away. She truly felt that she wanted Davis’s hand in hers forever, but what if she actually wanted it only for now? How could people tell the difference? She’d once cared for Clement in such a way too. Angel supposed that all these complications meant she was a woman.
38
Big Waters Begs
BIG WATERS RELEASED HERSELF from Clement’s slumbering hold on her and set her feet on the cool floor. She covered him up and tiptoed out of the room, past the kitchen, and out the front door. Once outside, she stretched and moaned in pain. She was old, and her bones rubbed and her skin sagged with age. In the night, Clement had crawled in beside her as he used to as a small boy, held on to her, and sobbed into her chest. The heat of him had felt good, but she had tried to remain still all night so as not to disturb his sleep. Now she walked, her muscles relaxed, and her mind got working. She thought about the boy’s hurting heart, and how her own heart seemed to be bleeding too. A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.
She knew why he cried. And she knew that her own love was not enough for him. This hurt her, but she forgave the boy for it because he could not help his heart’s desires. Since the first day his sister had been taken from him, she knew the pain in this life would be great. It is not natural to separate those who have wombed together.
Big Waters waited at the back door of the Hatterbys’, and she would not leave even when the caretakers and housekeepers and horsemen shooed her away. Finally, the woman of the house, Mrs. Hatterby, herself appeared in the doorway.
The woman sneered, stepped out the door, and then closed it behind her. “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” Her eyes darted. “What do you want, old woman?”
In the monotone way of those who rarely speak, Big Waters strung together these words: “The children are of one womb and would do better to visit with each other.” Then she stepped back and rested her arms across her chest. She was tired. Along the side of the house, in the shadows, she spied the girl watching and listening.
Mrs. Hatterby stepped down from the doorway to a step. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” she said. “Get away from here, and you better keep that filthy brat away from my daughter.”
“Your daughter emerged from another,” said Big Waters. “And by her, a brother to whom she owes much. Bringing an unwanted child into your arms is right and good, but you were not right and good in leaving the other.”
Mrs. Hatterby thought for a moment, then curled her lips into a wry smile.
“What is this?” she scoffed. “What could I or my daughter possibly owe to that boy? You’re mad.”
Big Waters remained at the door.
Mrs. Hatterby fished in her pockets and pulled out a couple of coins. “All right. Is this how we’re doing it? Here’s money for your dirty children and your niggers you feed at your dirty little shack. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t know what my husband’s up to? What your nun is up to?” She pressed the coins to Big Waters’ chest and let them fall. “Don’t mess with me, old woman. I could bring the wrath of hell down upon all of you. Now get out of here and don’t come back.” Mrs. Hatterby went into the house and slammed the door behind her.
Angel came from the side of the big house and picked up the coins. She pressed them into Big Waters’ palms. “You may as well take them. For Clement. We have plenty more.”
Big Waters closed her palm over the coins. “You have given me a fine gift, and I have only this to give you in return. Listen. I was there on the day you were born in a small room to the red-haired child wife. You came first and were pink and noisy and full of black hair, which is strong and means a long life. The boy came second and was small and quiet like a naked bird. His life will not be long. In the womb, you devoured your mother’s strong blood and will live long but will also be greedy. You left your brother very little and now his life will be hard. He hadn’t even enough blood to darken one of his eyes. For this gift of long life he has given you, you owe it to him to make his days pleasant. It is your duty as a sister to do this.”
Angel’s lashes closed over her eyes. “Where is our mother? The red-haired woman?”
“I only know that the hairy trapper with the Indian wives once sought her.”
“Does Clement know?”
“He knows you are his sister. But I have not told him the rest,” Big Waters said. “He is not strong enough to know all the truths.”
The wind rustled, and Angel began to fear that her mother might check to make sure the old woman left.
“I’m supposed to—what—be his friend or his sister? What am I supposed to do?”
“Keep him happy.”
With that, Big Waters left.
39
Fantasies and Realities
THE NEXT MORNING, Angel sat on the piano bench. She recalled the events of the night before. The excitement of the men’s world delighted her mind. She envisione
d clamorous gatherings of important men shouting radical ideas, explosions in mountains where railroad tracks would be laid, slaves in the South grabbing their masters’ whips and tossing them to the ground in pure rebellion, and colorful, noisy, deadly clashes of soldiers and Indians on the prairies. She thought about her brother, Clement. He was her brother. The old woman had said so. And her real mother had red hair. Red hair! She wondered what had happened to her and who the hairy trapper was. To suddenly have so much information made her feel grown-up. After years of boredom, all at once her life was accelerating. But what could she do? What could she choose for herself? It seemed as though her father and mother were making all the important decisions for her. She wondered what Clement would do with his own life. Would he become a soldier or fur trader or timber man or railroad man or gold prospector or Indian fighter or cattle rancher or whaler or farmer or world traveler? The possibilities for men were so vast! Then she thought about Davis. What would he do? Would he leave here, and her, for somewhere more interesting and exciting?
She placed her hands upon the piano keys and swore she could feel Davis’s residual heat. She closed her eyes and imagined him kissing her. She parted her lips. She tried to sense him the way she could sometimes sense Clement. She thought about him. What might he be doing this minute? Maybe he was thinking of her. She felt sad to realize how little she knew about him. She wondered if it was crazy to imagine touching him and kissing him when she didn’t know his middle name, his favorite color, where he came from, or where he was going.
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