Bloodroots

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by Richie Tankersley Cusick

Lifting her eyes slowly, Olivia let her gaze wander over the walls ... the tables ... the sputtering lamps . . .

  She heard the front door groaning shut . . . closing her in . . .

  With a gasp, she spun around, nearly screaming when she saw what was behind her.

  Two eyes shone in the half light, huge and dark and unsettlingly calm.

  They seemed to have no face.

  As the first rush of terror went over her, Olivia felt her breath drain out in a long, weakening sigh.

  It was only a portrait. Practically hidden in shadow, she could see it now as she went closer, the eyes gazing down at her serenely, yet somehow curious, as if wondering why she was there.

  It was the face of a young man.

  The most handsome face she had ever seen.

  He had beautiful eyes. Even in the dimness Olivia could see their soft, expressive depths reflecting the

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  shimmering lamplight. His face was slender, his features almost delicate, the pale tan of his complexion heightened by his dark mane of hair, his mustache and beard. And yet, as she looked more closely, she recognized something tragic in his stare—tragic and somehow resigned—that disturbed her. She couldn't take her eyes from his. She reached upward toward his face, then felt her hand freeze in midair.

  Somewhere, people were talking.

  Olivia listened for a moment, thinking she must have imagined it. The low murmur of voices seemed to be coming from farther down the hall, and as she debated whether or not to turn and flee, she realized she had no choice but to follow the sounds and try to find help. She moved as quietly as she could, glancing nervously at the surrounding shadows, half expecting other eyes to appear, fearful that they might be real this time. When she spotted a sliver of light between the double doors near the end of the passage, she put her ear to the crack and listened.

  "Did you see her? She's dead, for God's sake," a voice said shakily. "The last thing I wanted was to have her frightened and upset. What on earth happened?"

  It was the voice of an old woman, weary and sad. And yet, with the very first word it spoke, Olivia felt an uncanny sense of knowing that cut through her like a knife.

  Grandmother.

  She didn't know how she knew, but there wasn't the slightest doubt in her mind. Her heart raced wildly, and as she pressed closer to the tiny opening, she heard a chair scraping the floor, and someone else began to talk.

  "I.. . I'm not sure. Helen found her in the yard

  early this morning. She must have fallen from the third-floor gallery." A male voice this time, gentle and soft, but obviously in great distress.

  "Fallen?" the old woman echoed. "Or jumped?"

  "She had no reason to jump. She never realized what was happening to her."

  "Hmmm ... I can't help but wonder about that."

  "You know he's very good at what he does. He always has been. They hardly even feel it. They simply sleep. There's only a little weakness." His voice faltered, then trailed away.

  "Are you all right? You seem so pale this evening."

  "It's nothing. I'm just thinking about Antoinette. How sorry I am."

  "Well, need I remind everyone around here how very difficult it is finding young women like her? All the precautions we must take . . . and to have it end like this—"

  "I can't believe it happened either. If only I could have done something."

  "Oh, my dear, you know you couldn't."

  "If only I could have stopped it. . ." He sounded hopeless . . . empty. "Stopped everything. Somehow."

  "You never can," the old woman said softly. "No matter how much you want to."

  There was something about their voices—their grim conversation—that filled Olivia with a strange mixture of sadness and fear. She was so intent on listening that she didn't realize one of them had started toward her hiding place. Too late, she heard the footsteps approaching, and as she turned and fled back down the hall, the doors began to open.

  The groan of old hinges echoed down and down the

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  corridor . . . lamplight flickered wildly up the walls as a cold draft swept along the passage . . .

  "She hated her so much she put a curse on her."

  And a million terrors and uncertainties rushed through Olivia's mind as she ran for the door—things that shouldn't even matter now because she was already here and it was much too late for worrying—

  No, no, I can't be caught like this, not like this, I've got to hide, but where —

  She could sense that someone had stepped out into the hallway just behind her.

  And as Olivia shook the front doorknob and found it locked, she keeled over in a make-believe faint and lay motionless upon the dirty floor.

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  pulling back again, though she was fairly certain she was still being watched.

  In a booming voice that seemed quite collected now, the woman called out, "Miss Rose! Some stranger's done fainted out here in the hall!"

  Olivia lay there feigning unconsciousness, her heart racing in fear as she willed her face expressionless. She could hear other people approaching now from the opposite end of the corridor, but they came hesitantly, as though exercising great caution. Listening closely, she guessed there to be two of them, and wondered if they'd been the ones she'd eavesdropped on. From the dull, thudding sound that accompanied their footsteps, she decided that one of them was using a cane.

  "Who is that? What in God's name is she doing here?" The old woman's voice hovered right over Olivia, and it was hoarse with alarm. "How did she get in?"

  "My God ... is she dead?" It was the other voice Olivia had heard behind the doors—the man's voice with its soft, slow Southern accent—only now he sounded frightened.

  "No, she ain't dead." The woman with the deep voice spoke up, jostling Olivia roughly in her arms. "Just passed out, that's all. The poor child's rail thin, Miss Rose, just look at her. But what I wants to know is, who let her inside the house when—"

  "Don't mind that now," the old woman broke in anxiously. "Just get her out of here."

  "To where? Where should I gets her out to?"

  "I don't care—just do it. And for God's sake, don't let Skyler see her. Oh, how on earth could this have happened—"

  "She's so beautiful," the man whispered, and as his hand trailed across her cheek, Olivia tried not to react. His touch was so gentle ... his skin startlingiy cool.

  "Get away from her," the old woman said, though not unkindly. "You've got to go back now—if she woke up—what a fine mess—"

  "But she is beautiful." He spoke again, his voice as gentle as his touch. "We can't just turn her out—you can see she needs to be taken care of—"

  "You do what Miss Rose says now, you hear?" The loud voice spoke sharply, and Olivia felt the smooth, tender hand slide away. "I'll take care of her—just go on back now."

  To her bewilderment, Olivia heard footsteps moving away again down the hall, followed by a long, uneasy silence. Not until the steps had completely faded did the old woman venture a whisper.

  "This frightens me, Yoly. What is she doing here?"

  "Don't you worry now, Miss Rose, just leave everything to me. You just go on back and finish your supper now."

  Olivia was trying so hard to lie still. Without any warning, she felt herself being lifted into a pair of burly arms as if she were no more than a baby and, after a short walk, deposited again onto a lumpy surface that smelled of mildew. She knew she couldn't pretend any longer—slowly she opened her eyes and frowned, waiting for her surroundings to come into focus.

  "'Bout time," the husky voice grumbled. The black woman was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and raw-boned, her huge hands clasped together in the lap of her black dress and black apron. Nothing showed of her hair—instead, a black kerchief molded itself to the shape of her head and knotted back

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  behind her thick neck. Her skin was so dark that her face seemed
almost featureless, but as Olivia continued to stare at her, she noticed two faint pinpricks of light and realized with a start that the woman's black eyes were staring straight back at her.

  "What you doin' here, child? You got lots of explainin' to do."

  "I—" Olivia looked back at her helplessly.

  "Speak up now. What you doin' here? What you doin' out here in the hall?"

  "I'm ... not sure."

  "You not sure? What kind of answer's that? Don't you know where you's supposed to be?"

  "I . . . got lost." Olivia's mind was racing, and she put a shaky hand up to her forehead.

  "You got lost?" The woman regarded her with an unblinking stare. "No one gets lost out this way. Where was you goin'?"

  "He robbed me," Olivia mumbled. "I got out of the cab because I didn't feel well. . . and the driver went oflf and left me here."

  "Cab!" A look of surprise crossed the woman's face. She seemed to consider Olivia's answer for several seconds, then asked, "What you doin' way out here in some cab? Did that cab driver bring you out here . . . for a reason?"

  "Could I please have some water?" Olivia looked away, unable to meet the woman's piercing gaze. "I think I might be sick."

  She could feel the woman's eyes boring into the side of her head. She closed her eyes again.

  "You fainted, you know that? You remember what happened? You remember anything?"

  Olivia shook her head, and the black woman sighed impatiently.

  Richie Tankeisley Cusick

  "I'll get you your water. And you can rest yourself for a while. But then you gots to leave."

  "Thank you," Olivia managed to whisper. She waited to hear the door close, to hear the woman's heavy tread fade away again down the hall.

  It hadn't actually been a lie, Olivia argued to herself; she really did feel as if she could faint. Her stomach was hardened into a cold knot of fear, and as her eyes swept over the spacious, dimly lit room, she sat up and rubbed her arms and tried to stop shaking.

  If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought she was back in the nineteenth century—except that this furniture was tattered and threadbare, and the paper on the tea-colored walls hung in mildewed shreds. As she moved to the edge of the worn velvet sofa to get a better look, the room came together in puzzle pieces of faint light and deep shadow. She saw scratched antique tables, the chipped marble of the mantel, gouged wooden floors, and moth-eaten rugs. In one corner, a clock, covered with cobwebs, had stopped at a quarter past some long-ago midnight. She suspected that the tall doors where the black woman had gone out led back to the hallway, but on the opposite wall a line of tall French doors framed the night beyond, pale shafts of light trickling out through the streaked glass and onto a brick veranda. As her eyes continued their slow appraisal of the room, they came to rest again upon the fireplace mantel. There was a canvas hanging above it, and she got up slowly to take a better look.

  It was the same young man whose portrait she'd seen in the hallway—the same handsome face, the same melancholy eyes. Here, in the somewhat better light, she could see that they were of the deepest, deepest blue, almost black, like fathomless seas, and were so filled with emotion that she felt strangely

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  hypnotized. There was such peace within them . . . such kindness ... yet again such immense sorrow that her heart nearly ached to look at him.

  "Your water."

  Jumping back, Olivia collapsed against the fire screen, her hand pressed to her heart. She hadn't heard the black woman come back. . . hadn't even heard the sound of the door.

  "You scared me," she gasped, taking the glass, trying to control the quaking of her hands. "I didn't know you were—"

  "You better tell me, child. And you better tell me the truth. What you doin' here?"

  Olivia looked reluctantly into the woman's eyes. Their points of light had sharpened onto her face, and she took a long, slow sip of water.

  "I'm looking for work."

  "Work!" The eyes narrowed into slits. "You full of stories, you know that? I'm old and I've heard 'em all. So don't you try to fool me now."

  "I'm not fooling you," Olivia said calmly, surprising herself at her control. "I really was looking for work." She took another drink of water, her mind reeling, stalling for time. "They said in town you might need some help out here."

  "Who said?"

  "I don't know. Someone. At ... at the bus station." She floundered, but only for a second. "The cab driver told me." She was proud of how confident she sounded now. She met the woman's eyes bravely. "I've been asking whenever I stop in a new town. Someone on the bus told me about this place, and—"

  "What? What'd they tell you?"

  "Just that it was old. I like old houses, that's all. I just wanted to see what it looked like. So when I got to

  the bus stop, I asked around about it, and that cab driver said maybe I could find work."

  "What else he tell you about this place?"

  "Nothing. He didn't tell me anything."

  "Nothin' 'bout the Devereauxs? He never said nothin' 'bout the family?"

  "I didn't know who lived here." And it was amazing how easily it was all coming to her now, slipping right off her tongue, as if she'd really planned it like this after all. She lowered her glass, but her eyes remained on the woman's face. "He didn't say anything except maybe I could get a job. So he brought me out here—just so I could see the place—and I didn't feel good, so I got out of the car. And then he drove off and left me."

  "So where's your pocketbook?"

  "I told you, he took it." Olivia shrugged. "My suitcase, too."

  "So . . ." the woman said slowly, "you ain't got nothin' with you?"

  "No. Nothing. I came up here to the house to get help. I knocked and knocked, but nobody came." Olivia stopped and took a deep breath. "When I pushed on the door, it just opened. I thought maybe someone might be inside. I didn't mean to walk into your house like that—really—I just thought someone here could help me."

  The black woman was watching her intently, but Olivia didn't care anymore. She finished the last of her water and handed back the glass. The woman stared at her for a long, long time.

  "Whoever told you was wrong," she said at last. "There ain't no work here."

  And it shocked Olivia to hear the woman say so, for

  her plan had been going so well. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and something roared deep, deep in her mind, as her whole world started to crumble down around her shoulders. Tell her, tell her who you are, tell her now —the roar got louder and louder, but no, Olivia argued silently, no, I can't, it's not the right time. Something was holding her back, making her put her hands to her head, making her smother that awful roar in her brain, certain that the woman must be able to hear it—

  "You can't stay here." The woman's voice was flat. "You gots to go back."

  But you don't understand. . . / have to stay here . . . I belong.

  "If I could just rest, then." Olivia turned away, massaging her head, the roar practically gone now. "If I could just rest here for a little while, just until I feel better."

  "You's runnin' away." The woman gave her a grim smile. "Ain't you."

  "No. I don't have any family." Olivia stared at the fireplace, at the portrait above it, at the vase on the mantel, heavy, dull crystal.

  "How long since you ate?" Olivia felt the woman's powerful hand close around her wrist and squeeze it roughly. "Don't lie to me now."

  Pulling her arm free, Olivia eased herself down into a chair . . . lowered her head between her hands.

  "Sometime . . . yesterday, I think."

  "And nothin' since?"

  "No. Some coffee. That's all." At least this was the truth. As Olivia sighed and sagged back against the cushion, the woman gave a grunt and turned away.

  "Might as well forget about ever seein' your things

  again. That stuffs long gone and spent by now, I reckon. Ain't got no phone to call—even if we did,
no cab gonna come out here this time of night anyhow. Can't expect you to walk back. Can't send you away sick." She was grumbling, more to herself now than to Olivia, and she shot another look in the girl's direction. "You wait here. I'll be right back."

  Olivia nodded, and then on a sudden impulse pointed to the painting. "Who is that?" she asked. "His face is so . . . real."

  She saw the woman's eyes flash to the portrait, then dart away again. The sturdy black hand tightened on the edge of the door.

  "Wait here. Don't go out the room."

  She wasn't gone long this time. Olivia had scarcely settled into her chair when the woman was back again, motioning her to stand up.

  "What's your name, girl?"

  "She hated her so much she put a curse on her ..."

  "Olivia."

  "Olivia what?"

  "Hated her so much . . . she couldn't ever come back..."

  Her mind raced. "Crawford," she decided. It wasn't really a lie, she told herself. Mama would never say the name of her real father, and she'd taken on so many other last names in her lifetime, she couldn't take a chance that somehow, somewhere, her grandmother might have heard one of them and be able to recognize it now. "What's your name?" she added, hoping to stop the questions.

  "Yoly," the woman answered. "Miss Rose says for you to stay the night. Have some food." She glanced again at the portrait, and her voice lowered. "She'll talk to you tomorrow."

  Olivia's heart gave a leap, but she managed to keep her face only mildly curious. "Miss Rose?"

  "The lady I works for. Miss Devereaux. The lady of this here house."

  Olivia nodded. "That's very nice of her. I'd like to thank—"

  "Come with me."

  Yoly swung open the door and stood aside to let Olivia pass. The hall was still dim with lamplight, but Yoly moved swiftly through the shadows, leading the way to the very rear of the house.

  "You can sleep upstairs. Second floor. There ain't no air-conditionin', so you just has to stand the heat. I'll bring up some food."

  There were no stairs at the end of the corridor. Instead Yoly led the way outside onto the open veranda and made a sharp turn to the right. Wisps of fog curled between the tall supporting columns along the back of the house, slid across the bricks like soft gray worms. Olivia spotted a narrow staircase tucked back against the outside wall beneath the eaves, and Yoly looked back at her as they started to climb.

 

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