Columbella

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Leila nodded miserably. “She’s seen it. She made me try it on for her this afternoon. She thinks it’s all wrong.”

  “So what do you plan to wear?”

  “Oh—an old thing from last year.” She hesitated, then flashed me an unhappy look. “I wanted something new to wear. I really did!”

  I understood very well her eternally feminine reason. She wanted to look lovely for a man—or perhaps for a mythical unicorn who existed only in her own imagination. A man who, in real life, would probably never notice what she wore because he would be dancing attendance on a woman in a red dress. Nevertheless, I had to use to advantage Leila’s evident longing to look well.

  “Wear the yellow anyway,” I urged. “You have to choose for yourself sometime. Even your mother might make a mistake.”

  She reached the door of her room and pushed it open impatiently. “Cathy doesn’t make mistakes of that kind,” she said and went inside, closing the door firmly before I could say anything more.

  I stared at the blank wood panel that shut me out, and tried to marshal my thoughts for a real attack on the problem that faced me. This was more than the simple matter of wearing or not wearing a new dress. I knew—how well I knew!—how much more was involved.

  If Leila wore the dress and looked as lovely in it as I knew she could, it would help enormously in this struggle against Catherine’s destructive control. If only I could help turn Leila away from her worshipful concern with a mother who deserved no such love and concern, then she would begin to lead her own life and King might go away and work out something for himself. As always, the thought of his going away made my heart constrict—but this I must live with. A future for the two of us might never be possible, but King and Leila must have their chance. Something mattered to me once more, mattered enormously as it had not mattered for a long time.

  Again I waited, this time for King to come upstairs. The moment he appeared I leaned on the rail and spoke to him.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  He looked dispirited and anything but eager for the evening’s festivities, but he came with me to my room. I gestured him into a chair, closed the door, and went to sit on the bed. Though he made no move in my direction, his eyes studied me as though he memorized my face. It was a look I could not bear, a fatalistic look that gave up—relinquished. I knew where it could lead because I had been there myself, and I did not want this for Kingdon Drew.

  Quickly I told him the story of the yellow dress, and of how Catherine had set out deliberately to destroy Leila’s pleasure in it and shake her confidence about wearing it.

  “The problem now,” I pointed out, “is to get Leila into that dress in spite of herself.”

  He heard me through in silence and then rejected the idea wearily. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done.”

  “There is if you’ll help me,” I said.

  “How?” There was disbelief in the word.

  I threw all the eager persuasion I could summon into my answer. “First, be gentle with her. Keep your temper, even if she says outrageous things. Call her by some pet name you used when she was little. Play it by ear. All we want is to have her try on the dress for you—nothing else.”

  “A dress,” he said, “at a time like this.”

  There was no time for pleading and explanation. “Just trust me. Trust me and help me this one time.”

  His look gentled. “All right—I will. What do we do first?”

  I ran to the door next to mine. He went with me and waited as I knocked upon the panel. Leila answered grumpily, rudely. I saw King’s jaw begin to tighten and I touched his arm so that he relaxed and smiled at me ruefully.

  “I’m here with your father,” I called through the door. “Can you see us for a minute?”

  She did not answer right away and I could hear her shuffling about the room. When she came to open the door she had wrapped a flowered muumuu about her and her feet were bare.

  “May we come in?” I said.

  She looked in guarded surprise from me to her father. “I’m just getting dressed. There isn’t much time.”

  King came to my aid. “I know,” he said. “We can be late for the party together.”

  There was suspicion in her eyes, and I sensed that she knew very well that something was to be asked of her, and was preparing her refusal.

  Quickly I glanced about the room. A flowered green and white dress had been flung across the bed and the wardrobe door stood open. I saw the yellow dress hanging inside.

  “Your father wants to see you in the dress you bought this morning,” I said. “I’ve been telling him about it.”

  She started to shake her head, to stick out her lower lip. King ran his hand over the ridge of hair above his right temple as if the gesture relaxed him, and when he spoke his voice sounded as lightly teasing as I could have wished.

  “Come on, chicken! Let’s see this wonderful dress on you. Then if you want, you can change back to that spinach green.”

  “Spinach green” struck exactly the right note and I was delighted with him.

  A faint quiver touched Leila’s lips before she pressed them together, still resisting him with all her might.

  “You used to show me your new things—remember?” he coaxed. “It’s been a long time. I’d like to see this dress.”

  She turned resentfully to me. “What are you up to? What do you want?”

  “Nothing very terrible,” I said. “I’d like to see you look as pretty for the party tonight as you did in your uncle’s shop this morning. Your father and I are going back to my room. We’ll wait for you there. Come show us when you’re ready.”

  I took care not to catch her eye, but simply got myself and King out of the room as quickly as we could manage it, before any stormy refusal was hurled at us. I hoped Leila’s feminine curiosity would come to our aid.

  King sat in the chair in my room and regarded me in frank surprise. “I’d never have thought—” he began, and then changed his direction. “I wanted to spank her, but you gave me a look and—”

  “And you stopped being an angry father,” I said. “Don’t scold her so much. It’s hard to be fourteen. She’s not a child, yet she’s not grown up either, though she’s trying hard to convince herself that she is. It’s a difficult time for parents too. I know that. Perhaps just loving her is the bridge—making her know you’re there to be counted on.”

  He was regarding me with that warmly searching look which always brought too great a response from me, and I was afraid I could not much longer stay as remote as I must.

  It was a relief to hear a sound from the next room and a moment later Leila was at my door. When I opened it she stepped shyly into the room, presenting her back for me to zip up the dress. She held the coral beads and earrings in her hands, and as I helped her put them on I saw that she had taken time to brush her shining cap of brown hair and smooth the oblique line of bangs across her forehead. Her lips were touched with coral pink—nothing more—and her eyes were a clear amber brown. As clear as only young eyes can be when unadorned by the artifice of pigment.

  Yet I could sense her anxiety, her lack of confidence. If King failed her now, if there was a false note in anything he said, immeasurable harm might be done. But he did not speak—and that was right. His surprise at the sight of her was genuine and could not have been more flattering. There was no need for him to pretend, and I could see her young confidence swelling as she turned before him preening a little—a glowing, charming picture of a young girl ready for a party.

  “I wish I could paint,” I said. “I’d want to do a portrait of you the way you look right now.”

  That was the right response too, coming naturally to my lips. She actually smiled and her father whistled softly. There was no need for fumbling praise about a dress. He turned her about and nodded appreciatively, then wink
ed at her in a way I knew must have been a long-ago signal between them. She flung herself suddenly upon him, no longer fourteen but all of ten years old, and they hugged each other warmly in rediscovery. As I watched I knew how much I had come in this short time to love them both.

  “Don’t cry now, chicken!” he said, patting her shoulder affectionately. “You’ll mess up your face for the party. I’ve got to hurry and get dressed myself. But if you’ll wait for me I’ll be proud to take you downstairs with me. How’s that?”

  “I accept!” She let him go and turned to me. “You’ll be there tonight, won’t you? You’ll stay with me, Jessica?”

  I liked her easy use of my first name, and I understood her need for support, perhaps even protection. Protection from her mother.

  “I hadn’t meant to go,” I said hesitantly. “I really haven’t been asked to this supper, and—”

  “Of course you’ve been asked.” King sounded a little rough as if he was fighting his own moment of emotion. “We’re both counting on you, Jessica.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised them both, and put my heart in it.

  Leila flew off to her room to wipe away any trace of tears, and King stayed for a moment after she had gone. I did not want him there—the longing in me was growing too painful.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly; “If Catherine hurts her tonight I’ll—”

  Longing faded at once in the face of alarm. “Don’t say it and don’t let Leila see how you feel. If you say anything against Catherine, you’ll simply put your daughter on the defensive.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  When he had gone I took a quick, impulsive whirl about the room, feeling almost as happy as Leila had looked—and with far less reason. I did not think Catherine would retreat easily or accept the defeat we had planned for her. Yet—I was going to a party and I was in love! By now I was more than willing to shut my eyes to danger and the impossible future.

  Dressing a bit feverishly, I found myself wishing that I had a new dress so that I too could look beautiful for Kingdon Drew. The candy pink would have to do, but we were of an age tonight, Leila and I, and both foolish.

  For that brief, hopeful moment I felt younger than I had in my teens when Helen was alive, and what was more, no whispering voice came out of the past to haunt me.

  13

  That was a night of gold and red, with torches flaring on the hilltop, and the lights of Charlotte Amalie fanning out around the harbor far below. A night of water lily and jasmine and sweetly scented cereus. The night of the shell. Columbella!

  When I was dressed Leila tapped on my door and her father took us down, one on either arm. My reckless elation was fading and I could now remember Catherine.

  All through the main hall a myriad candles glowed in tall hurricane globes. The buffet tables were laden with attractive delicacies, some of which Catherine had ordered flown in from the mainland to supplement what she had purchased yesterday in San Juan. For an informal supper a great deal of money had been spent and I had heard Maud Hampden protesting Catherine’s excesses.

  As the three of us descended the stairs I saw that women in sleeveless summer dresses, and men in light suits or the madras shorts and jackets that were common wear in the Islands, already moved among the tables or stood about talking. Though I looked for her at once, Catherine was not in sight. We were late, as we expected to be, and Edith noted our appearance in both disapproval and surprise.

  Near the foot of the stairs Maud Hampden stood speaking with a dark-skinned couple, whom I knew to be a senator and his wife. Both Maud and Aunt Janet had friends among well-to-do Virgin Islanders, and I was continually impressed by the dignity and quiet reserve of the older women—a dignity in which there was no arrogance.

  Maud saw us and turned aside for a moment to compliment Leila and kiss her cheek. For me she had a secret look of congratulation.

  While King moved into the crowd to greet friends, as Alex and Edith were doing, Leila and I slipped into the line carrying plates around long tables. In the charming island manner flowers had been strewn down the center of each table. Hibiscus, bougainvillea, the blossoms of the flame tree, all were there in their natural beauty, laid simply upon lacy cloths, more beautiful without formal arranging. One could be profligate with blossoms, starting afresh each day, since they were always so abundantly at hand.

  Steve and Mike had come and the look on their faces when they saw Leila spelled success. Since I had caught Leila doodling little figures of unicorns and shells, I had begun to see Steve in a new and rather disturbing role. He was a little too arrestingly good-looking, a little too confident. He pranced too much, always inviting feminine attention. Now he whistled teasingly at Leila, and I was glad of Mike’s more frankly astonished grin.

  “Hey!” said Mike inadequately. “Well—hey!” And Leila smiled at him with more friendliness than usual, before her heart-in-the-eyes look turned back to Steve.

  We filled our plates and were ready to carry them out to the terrace when Catherine made her appearance on the stairs. It was to be expected that she would do just this—make an appearance. The murmur of voices around the tables hushed and it seemed to me that something uneasy ran through the room, resulting in a sudden quiet.

  She stood above us on the landing—a column of flame in her red dress. Its straight lines hugged the curves of a body less softly rounded than Leila’s, but seductive enough, flaring into that moving, shimmering froth of ruffles at her knees, revealing the perfection of long slim legs as she came down the stairs. Tonight she had piled her fair hair high on her head in an elaborate formation, and below it her triangle of a face seemed exquisitely beautiful. About her neck the gilded shell, the columbella, hung suspended from its chain, bright against the red of her dress.

  At once friends were greeting her, catching her up in their circle, and she was lost from our view. I turned to Leila and saw the dazzled look she wore—as though she had stared too long at the sun.

  With a hand on her arm, I drew her away from Steve, who now had eyes only for Catherine, and from Mike, who had begun to glower.

  “Remember who you are,” I said to her softly. “Hold on to that—don’t lose it! You’re not your mother and you don’t have to be like her. You only need to be yourself—your best self.”

  The dazzle left her eyes and she turned to me breathlessly. “She’ll be angry when she sees what I’m wearing.”

  I had to take the risk of an attack. There were obligations that went with parenthood—obligations Catherine had chosen not to honor.

  “You know why she’ll be angry, don’t you?” I asked coolly.

  Leila’s eyes avoided mine. “Because she wants me to look my best. Because she doesn’t want to be ashamed of me.”

  “You look just the way you should look and there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I told her, thoroughly indignant and letting her see it. “Remember the queen in Snow White when you were small? She had to be fairest in the land, and if anyone threatened her, there was always the poisoned apple. Words can be poisoned too, and your mother knows how to use them.”

  Color flared in her cheeks, but I gave her no chance for an answer. “Come outside and we’ll find a place where we can sit down and eat.”

  Mike O’Neill saw what we intended and hurried to join us. As we stepped outside I looked back—at the very moment Catherine saw her daughter. But though her attention was fixed upon Leila, the girl had gone out to the terrace and did not notice. Mike and I exchanged a glance as we went after her. The moment of confrontation had been postponed, and the longer it was held off, the more chance there would be for Leila to get used to her wings and the heady sensation of flying, so that she could not be so easily shot to earth.

  On the terrace Leila ignored the round tables placed all about and went straight to the low wall of blue stone. Outdoors there was a wi
nd, though the hibiscus hedges made something of a windbreak—but then, it was always windy in St. Thomas and no one seemed to mind.

  Across the flagstones near the opposite curve of the wall, where torchlight made his olive skin look golden, was a man with a guitar. He wore white duck trousers and a white shirt, with a bright red cummerbund about his plump waist, his black head bare. Leila saw him and waved.

  “That’s Malcolm,” she said. “He’s one of the best Calypso singers in St. Thomas. I’ll bet Cathy got him here. He always makes up special songs for her.”

  If Leila had resented my words about Catherine, her resentment had faded. I hoped that I had offered a doubt to buttress any loss of confidence when the need arose.

  The man with the guitar flashed us a smile and began to strum softly, singing to his own accompaniment. The song was “Island in the Sun”—and as always the background and the singing spread a patina of emotion over the scene. Here on this hilltop the trade winds blew and torches flared and danced, repeating themselves in ghostly duplicate in all the glass doors and windows of the house. When one looked away from the lights, the stars were bright and close, though the moon had not yet risen. All the paraphernalia of a lovely tropic night were present to tug at our feelings. Perhaps the clouds seemed a bit thicker than usual, mounded here and there across the sky, but we did not worry.

  Around the terrace, women’s dresses added to the color, and their voices were as light and murmurous as the wind in palm fronds. In and out wove the music, haunting, plucking at memory, reminding us of the elusive passing moment, telling us we were here in this island now, with all its insistent beauty around us—almost too much of it for the senses to bear. In a thrice it might vanish for any one of us—and be gone forever. That was a part of the savoring, perhaps.

  Malcolm was singing “Kingston Town” plaintively, and the repetition played upon the strings of emotion that hummed among us.

  Suddenly King was there beside me, wanting to know if all was well, if I had everything I wanted. Soon I must come and meet some of the guests. I cast a sidelong glance at Leila arguing animatedly with Mike, and shook my head.