I held up the lamp, afraid that I had blundered into Miss Emily's quarters, but it was immediately obvious to me that no one had lived in this room for years, so I turned up the lamp and gazed around. It was an enormous room with a great oak bed. It had pillars that went up as high as the ceiling and an enormous half moon headboard. The bed still had all its pillows and blankets, but the cobwebs on it were so thick it was clear no one had come in to clean it for ages.
There was a stone fireplace at least twenty feet long on the wall with large windows on either side. Long curtains were drawn tightly closed and looked weighed down with dust and grime. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a young Father Booth, I thought, or perhaps his father. He stood holding a rifle in one hand and a string of ducks in the other. It was one of the few pictures in the house where someone had something of a smile on his face.
There was a lot of dark, beautiful antique furniture in the room, and on the night table there was a copy of the Bible with a pair of reading glasses beside it.
The room smelled musty and stale and looked as if its inhabitants had simply been swallowed up one day, for the vanity table was still covered with brushes and combs and jars of skin creams. Some jars had been left opened, the contents dried and evaporated. Clothing still hung in the closets and there were pairs of shoes beside the bed, a man's pair on one side, a woman's on the other. I had the chilling feeling I had invaded the sanctuary of a pair of ghosts.
I backed out of the room I felt sure had once been Father and Mother Booth's room and continued down the corridor. When I realized that the door to the next room on the right was open, I turned the kerosene lamp down again and approached as quietly as I could. There was some very dim light coming from this room. I hesitated and then peered around the door jamb and gazed within.
There, asleep on a long, narrow bed with a plain square head and foot board was Miss Emily. She looked laid out like a corpse, for she wore a shroudlike nightgown and the light of her small kerosene lamp made her face appear bone white. So she slept with a light on, I thought. How interesting that she permitted herself to be wasteful. Despite her iron face and steel cold eyes, she lived with fears that made her afraid of the darkness.
I moved across her open doorway quickly and hurried down the long corridor, for the next doorway was some distance away. That door, too, was open, and when I looked in, I found Charlotte asleep in her bed, her body folded into the fetal position, her fingers near her mouth. Her long pigtails had been unraveled and her hair lie about her head in a clump of gray that made her childlike face look strangely out of place.
Except for their parents' room kept like some museum chamber, what was here that would make Miss Emily want to forbid me from entering the west wing? I wondered. I lifted the lamp and directed the light ahead of me and saw that there was another room on Charlotte's side, the doorway much smaller than the others. I listened to be sure Miss Emily hadn't heard my footsteps and then I walked on. The door to this room was closed. I tried the knob, but the door didn't budge. Was it just like the first door, simply stuck? I pushed harder and it opened as if someone had been standing behind it and had suddenly decided not to resist. I practically flew into the room, carried in by my own efforts.
This time when I lifted the lamp to gaze about, I shuddered. It was a nursery. Charlotte hadn't been fantasizing about that. The walls were covered with her needlework in frames, all of it beautiful work, pictures of animals and the plantation, as well as simple scenes in nature—meadows, trees, flowers. There were dressers and closets in the room, but the centerpiece was a crib and it looked like there was a baby in it.
My heart began to pound as I drew closer and closer. There was a baby. All this time . . . but I never heard it cry and why keep it a secret? Whose baby could it be?
I stepped up to the crib and lifted the light slowly over it. Then I reached in and carefully drew the soft, pink blanket back from the baby's face and realized . . . it was a doll!
"How dare you come in here?" I heard Miss Emily scream and I nearly dropped my lamp. I spun around quickly to see her standing in the nursery doorway. She was only in her nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders, making her even more witchlike. She held her own lamp up so the light fell on me. "How dare you come into this wing when I forbid it!"
"I wanted to see why Charlotte kept telling me about her baby. I wanted . . ."
"You had no right," she roared, coming forward. "This is not your business," she hissed, only a few feet from me now. Her eyes were filled with hot anger, her neck strained, making her collarbone look like it would rip out 'of her skin. Death itself couldn't have appeared more horrid looking than she did with the light over her venomous face, her skin the same shade as her teeth and her eyes red. I could barely breathe, barely move. My throat closed up; my heart felt as if it had stopped and a cold chill rushed up from my feet and traveled with electric speed over my spine to the back of my head.
"I . . . didn't want to bother you by asking, but . . ."
"But you were curious," she said, nodding, "as curious as Eve about the Tree of Knowledge, even though she, like you, were forbidden to taste of it. Nothing's changed you all the time you have been here, not the work, not the Sundays in the chapel, not my lectures, nothing; you are what you are and what you will always be—sinful."
"I'm not," I protested calmly. "I only wanted . . ."
"To know where the devil has been before. I understand your interest," she said, nodding again. "Very well, feast your eyes upon it," she said, gesturing around her.
"I don't understand," I said.
"This room was where we kept the child until it died and went to hell."
"Died? What child? Whose child?"
"The devil's own," she said. "Charlotte gave birth to it, but it was the devil's own."
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Because no one but the devil himself could have made her pregnant. Suddenly one day she was pregnant, don't you see?" she said, her eyes maddeningly wide. "I knew it all the time and when the baby was born, I had only to take a look at it to confirm it."
"You told her it had pointed ears, didn't you?"
"It did," she said. "Thankfully, it didn't survive."
"What did you do?" I asked, my heart pitter-pattering so hard I could hardly speak loud enough for her to hear me.
"Nothing but say my prayers over it day and night," she replied, a far-off look in her eyes. She was silent a long moment and then remembered where she was.
"But my pathetic half-sister didn't understand, couldn't understand. And so . . . I let her keep this fantasy."
"This is cruel." I gazed into her terror-filled face. "You think my baby is evil, too, don't you? That's why you tried to cause a miscarriage by making me do such hard work and giving me too much castor oil and starving me. You're crazy," I said before I had a chance to prevent myself from uttering the words. She spun around on me.
"You would say that! Get out of here," she ordered. I started for the doorway. She walked toward me threateningly. "Get out and back where you belong!"
"I will and I don't belong here," I cried back. "I want to go away . . . anywhere else but here and you can't stop me."
As soon as I reached the doorway, I turned and started to run, the image of her hateful eyes lingering.
"Get thee behind me, Satan!" she screamed. I ran faster, but I made the mistake of looking back when I reached the end of the west wing and I tripped. I screamed and spun around, slapping myself against the wall before falling to the floor. Miraculously, the lamp did not shatter, but the light went out leaving me in darkness. I groaned. This time, the pain in my stomach was accompanied by an intense tightening.
Oh, no, I thought. Oh, no. . . . I screamed in agony.
Slowly, Miss Emily came up the corridor, her light before her. I pressed my hands to my stomach.
"Help me," I cried out. "Something's happening . . ." I looked down between my legs and realized I was all wet. "My w
ater's broken!" I screamed.
She lowered the lamp slowly and saw it was true.
"Get yourself up," she commanded. "Quickly." Charlotte, who had finally awakened, came up behind her.
"What's wrong with her, Emily?" she asked. "Why is she lying on the floor?"
"Help her to her feet," Miss Emily commanded and Charlotte stepped forward.
The walk back to my room was the most excruciatingly painful walk I could ever imagine. The pain grew worse as my stomach tightened and tightened. I fell on my back on the bed. Miss Emily came in calmly and put the lamp down on the table.
"Go wake Luther up," she told Charlotte, "and tell him to bring us a pail of hot water." She glared down at me, her face twisting into a smile of contempt. "She's gone and hurried things along." She turned to the amazed Charlotte who continued to gape. "Move," she commanded.
"Oh, God," I cried. "It hurts so much."
"The more sinful you are, the more it does," Miss Emily replied with great satisfaction.
She pulled up my dress and had me bend my knees. Then she put her palm on my abdomen. "You're contracting," she concluded. Then she smiled. "Now we shall see if you are strong enough to bear the burden of your guilt."
16
MY KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR
"Push!" Miss Emily screamed into my face. "You're not pushing. Push harder!"
"I am pushing," I cried. I took deep breaths and tried again and again. The pain was so excruciating I began to consider the possibility that Miss Emily had been right—my agony was more severe as part of some divine punishment for my actions. Momma Longchamp had never told me giving birth was this painful. I knew it was no Sunday picnic, but I felt as if someone with giant hands was squeezing my stomach. It seemed to become a knot of knives. I thought I would pass out before delivering and something terrible would happen. Finally, I felt the baby moving.
"Just as I thought," Miss Emily said, "the baby is coming feet first." She guided it out with her long, thin and bony hands.
Charlotte had returned with the pail of hot water and then Miss Emily had sent her for towels and a pair of scissors. I saw her standing by the door, her mouth agape, her eyes wide as she watched the miraculous event unfold.
"What are you doing with the scissors?" I cried when I saw Miss Emily reach back and take it from Charlotte's hands.
"I'm cutting the umbilical cord," she replied, annoyed at my asking.
"Why isn't the baby crying? Don't babies cry when they're first born?" I asked. My face was covered with sweat, some drops getting into my eyes and making me blink.
"Shut up and be patient," she snapped. "Don't forget, it's premature," she added.
"What is it? Is it a girl?"
She didn't reply, but I saw Charlotte nodding. A little girl, just as I had hoped. I closed my eyes and lay back, my head against the pillow as my breathing became more regular.
Suddenly, I heard the tiny cry as Miss Emily washed the baby and wrapped it in a towel.
"Let me see her," I cried.
Miss Emily placed her beside me. I was so tired, I could barely keep my eyes open, but when I gazed at that tiny pink face with a nose and mouth so small, I felt my pain and exhaustion recede, washed away for the moment by an overwhelming sense of elation. Her little fingers were curled and wrinkled like a little old lady's, and she had the smallest ears. She had a small patch of blond hair, my hair, just as I had hoped she would. Her eyes were shut tight. I couldn't wait to see if she had Michael's dark sapphire eyes.
"She's so perfect, so tiny," I said. "Is that a dimple in her cheek?"
"She's too small," Miss Emily muttered. She rolled up the other towels and dropped them in the pail. Then she gazed down at my baby and me. She shook her head and reached down to lift her from my arms.
"Where are you taking her?" I demanded. I was numb with fatigue, unable to resist.
"To the nursery. Where else? You sleep. Later, I will send Charlotte up with something nourishing for you to drink."
I thought she was holding the baby too roughly and I imagined even for a just-born infant, feeling those hard bony arms beneath and around her must be uncomfortable. She grunted and turned her head as if to deny what was happening to her.
"Why can't she stay with me?"
"You might very well roll over on her in your sleep," Miss Emily said, flicking me one of her scornful glances. Then she looked at the baby and shook her head again. "She's too small," she repeated and started away.
"But she is beautiful, isn't she? Isn't she?" I cried. Miss Emily turned only her head and peered back at me over her sharp shoulder.
"She came into this world feet first," she replied.
"What does that mean?" I asked. She didn't answer. She continued out. "What does that mean?" I shouted, but all I heard were her footsteps moving farther and farther away. I wanted to get up and follow her out, but I was so exhausted that even the thought of it was too much. To lie helpless and too weak even to lift my hand or turn my head was an unnerving experience, so unnerving I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
I dreamt of my baby in my arms. She looked older already, her face fully formed and clearly combining my features and Michael's. Suddenly, she was lifted out of my arms just the way Miss Emily had just done so. My baby held out her arms toward me, but she kept moving away. The baby cried out and I cried for her. The cry in my dreams became a real cry waking me up.
I knew it was raining hard because I heard the torrents pounding the roof and the windows out in the corridor. Then I heard the rumble of thunder and the crack of lightning. It seemed as if the whole great house shook. Just the sounds made me feel cold and wet. I couldn't keep my eyes from closing again and fell asleep to the rhythm of the raindrops caught up in the gusts of wind and sweeping over the building in wave after wave.
When I woke again it was hours and hours later. I sensed someone at my side and turned to see Charlotte. She was holding a glass of what looked like milk, but had a brown tint and some tiny cereal-like things floating in it.
"Emily says you should drink this now," she said. "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a formula she made to help you regain your strength very quickly. It's something my grandmother drank after every one of her babies were born. Emily remembers what she told her to do to make it."
"Probably full of vinegar," I muttered and took it from her. But when I tasted it, it didn't taste bitter. It tasted like there was honey in it. From my life with Momma Longchamp, I knew that some of the old remedies, herbal concoctions and the like, were often better than so-called modern medicines. I emptied the glass in two gulps.
"Have you seen the baby?" I asked Charlotte. She nodded. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"Emily said she was too small," Charlotte replied.
"She'll get bigger. I'll nurse her and she'll be healthy and beautiful before long. I didn't want to give birth prematurely," I said, remembering it all now, "but Emily was so horrid to me. I thought she was going to attack me, so I ran and I fell. At least now it's all over and my baby and I will soon be out of here.
"Charlotte," I continued, reaching up to take her hand so she would come closer, "I saw the nursery and I know you were telling me the truth. You did have a baby, a real baby once."
"His ears were pointed," she recited quickly as if she had been hypnotized to repeat it every time there was a reference to her child.
"No, Charlotte. I'm sure they were not. Emily said you were just pregnant one day, but women don't just wake up and find themselves pregnant. There's always a father. Why didn't you ever tell her who the father was and make her stop saying those terrible things?"
She started to pull her hand from mine, but I held on.
"Don't go, Charlotte. Tell me. You're not as stupid as your sister says you are. You were ashamed, weren't you? So you kept it a secret. Why were you ashamed? Was he someone Miss Emily wouldn't have approved of? Did you think you loved him like I loved my Michael?"
Her eyes
widened with interest, but I saw from the look in them that love wasn't involved.
"You can tell me, Charlotte. I won't tell Miss Emily. You know I won't. You and I are closer and friendlier. I want to help you and be your friend just as much as you've been mine. You let her think you didn't know how you were pregnant; you let her create that horrible fantasy with the devil, didn't you?"
She didn't reply; she looked down.
"You know how women get pregnant, don't you, Charlotte? You know what they must do with men, even though I'm sure no one's ever bothered to tell you. It's a subject I'm positive has always been forbidden in this house, especially as long as Miss Emily's ruled it. But you know, right?"
"The wiggles," she said quickly.
"The wiggles? I don't understand, Charlotte. What are the wiggles? How does that make you pregnant?"
"After he did the wiggles on me," she said, "the baby started to grow in my stomach."
"After he did the wiggles? Who, Charlotte? Who did the wiggles on you?"
"It was in the barn," she said. "He showed me how the pigs did the wiggles and then he did it."
"The barn? It wasn't Luther, was it? It was Luther," I concluded from the expression on her face. "And I believe Miss Emily knew that all the time. Of course," I realized. "And she's been punishing him for it all these years, weighing on his conscience. That's why he takes all her abuse and lives and works like a slave.
"Oh, Charlotte," I said, reaching out for her. "I'm sorry what happened to you was made into such a nightmare. But tell me, what happened to the baby?"
We heard Miss Emily's footsteps in the hail and Charlotte jerked her hand from mine quickly.
"I'll make you a nice needlework picture to hang in the nursery," she said quickly and took the empty glass. Then she started out just as Miss Emily turned into the doorway. Miss Emily seized her arm to stop her.
Secrets of the Morning Page 31