by Renee' Irvin
He remembered the way she would place her hands on her small, narrow hips, smile and shout, “You gonna let a girl beat you, Tom Slaughter?”
Before he thought about it, Tom bent down and kissed her on the head.
Isabella whispered, “Don’t leave me, Tom,” and reached for his hand.
He touched her face with his hand and whispered, “For Christ sake, Bella, I would never do that.” He started to lift her. “Baby, put your arms around my neck. I’m going to take you to Sonny.”
Tom carried Isabella through the hay until they got to the stall at the back of the barn. He sat her on a blanket and said, “Here’s Sonny; he’s still alive. I didn't let Granny kill him. But you’ve got to understand that Sonny is injured and he may not live through the night. Whoever killed your pa, meant to kill the horse, too.”
Isabella gave Tom a fearful glance and then said with a whimper, “Can't Doc Ingle fix him?”
“Bella, the horse is in shock and he has a fever. His breathing is shallow, but he did move his head and Doc said that was a good sign. I think the horse tried to stay alive until your pa died, and then, well, he may have given up. I knew when I saw Granny headed to the barn what she had in mind. I could not let her kill that horse.” He let out a sigh and choked back tears. “I’m so sorry about your pa. We’ll find his killer; Sheriff has already put two of his boys on the case.” Isabella sniffled and wiped her nose on Tom's shoulder. Tom frowned and touched her cheek with his hand. “Oh my God, what happened to your face? Who did this to you?”
Isabella thought she had kept her bruise covered with her hair, but there was no point in trying to hide it now. She gazed at Tom and buried her head in his chest, her whole body twitched in pain. She knew that she had to lie; she could not tell him what had happened to her. She placed her hand on Tom’s cheek, and her lips trembled. She closed her eyes and said in a childlike voice, “Gracie and I went for a ride yesterday morning. We rode down by the river and over near Millicent Craig’s place. Something scared Gracie; it might have been a snake.” She paused and tried to catch her breath. “You know how scared me and Gracie are of snakes.” She glanced away from Tom. “I tried to hold the reins tight, but she was scared and ran. I caught my dress in the stirrup and I lost my balance and fell to the ground.”
Tom looked puzzled. He squeezed her hand and said, “For Christ sake, Isabella! Remember what your daddy and me told you; that you didn’t need to ride down by the river alone?”
Isabella whimpered, “Yesss.”
He held her head back and looked into her eyes. “Baby, don’t ever do that again.” Then he became irritated and confused. “That does not seem like Gracie.”
Isabella clung to him. Tom rubbed her head, leaned back and stared up at the rafters. For over an hour, he held her close, and then he picked her up and carried her into the house.
Jacqueline Marie Rousseau
It was early the next morning when two women of questionable reputation crossed the Chattahoochee River in an attempt to get out of Atlanta. They went through a thick, wooded forest that provided the endurance to believe that a hot bath, a dry place to stay, and a more hospitable environment was just a little further through the woods.
Jacqueline Rousseau, one of the two women, was a young Creole prostitute, whose profound beauty and experience made her the most desired whore in New Orleans. Her look was provocative, the kind that belonged to a woman who had no morals, but with the innocence of a child. One glance at this mysterious woman would make a man think that she was the work of both the angels and the devil. Her flawless skin was a pale shade of olive, thick, black lashes encased pensive almond-shaped eyes that were an exotic shade of green, and her lips were full and seductive.
Many a young sailor had brought her flowers. Older gentlemen had fallen in love with her, and it was only after she had robbed them of their money, that they realized what fools they were. She twisted the gold bracelet on her arm and smiled a malicious smile. She was not like the other whores; she used men the way they used her.
She rode out of Atlanta with a Negro maid, who was huge with child, and the Madame of their brothel had chased them in the streets. The Madame flung a handkerchief at Jacqueline, cursing and screaming threats.
“You thief, you little tramp!” Yelled the Madame.
However, the real mystery, Jacqueline kept concealed inside a small rosewood box that she had carried with her since the age of twelve. Inside the dark box was what put Jacqueline’s anxious patrons into a deep sleep: opium. While the vile men slept, Jacqueline emptied their pockets.
A street preacher had come to the brothel and offered mercy for Jacqueline’s soul, in exchange for an afternoon of pleasure behind closed doors. Jacqueline reminded herself that she had made the small fortune she had squandered. But she did not believe in charity, therefore, she took the street preacher up on his offer. She thanked him for his company and several minutes later, she left him naked, asleep like a baby, and emptied his pockets on the way out the door. Upon her departure, she brushed her waist length black hair with her silver brush and then slipped into the Madame’s room. Jacqueline glanced quickly at the dressing table covered with perfume bottles and toiletries, and put every one of them into a worn brown satchel. She hurried out of the house, looked up at the cloudy, gray sky and hoped rain would not come until she could arrive in Norcross at the house of Mae Patterson. She was alone again, with the exception of the pregnant maid and a blind black cat. She slowed down in a brief attempt to rearrange her belongings. Warm air blew her jet-black hair loose in her face.
She looked into the satchel, removed the black cat, held him up to her face and rubbed his cold scratchy nose against hers. The cat was the only family she had. Jacqueline, now eighteen years old, had only been five or six when she found herself with nothing more than the brown satchel she now carried, standing at the door of the most notorious “house” in New Orleans. No one ever saw her crack open the bedroom doors and witness half-naked men and women with loose limbs draped over each other. Staring through the thicket of pines, the cat pawed at her cheek. She smiled and placed him back in her satchel where he burrowed in cozily.
The sun came out and her panic lifted. Jacqueline glanced down at her wrist; she had on a gold bracelet given to her by a prominent Atlanta physician. A silent man she mused, but he had been terribly fond of her. Above all, he made her feel like a lady. She glanced at her maid and felt guilt and remorse that she had brought her along. She had never seen a woman give birth and she did not want to see it now.
“Ida, do you have any kin that live around here?” Jacqueline asked, hoping the answer would be yes.
“Dey all back in Louisiana. I shure is tired. These bags is awful heavy.”
Jacqueline sighed, dropped her narrow shoulders and sat her bag down on the ground. She walked over and took Ida’s bags from her hands, put them next to hers and plopped down next to them.
“Let’s rest for a minute. I would love to have a cup of hot coffee and a warm croissant,” Jacqueline said with a sigh.
Ida glanced at Jacqueline and laughed. “Miz Jacqueline, you’se drink that coffee so black I’se don’t see how you stands it.”
“It's chicory coffee, Ida, and black is the only way to drink it.”
Exhausted, Jacqueline dug into her skirt pocket and removed two croissants wrapped around a piece of sausage. She tore off a small piece of the meat and dangled it in front of her cat. He sniffed and snatched it for himself. Famished, Jacqueline started to eat one of the croissants, and then looked at her maid, who was trembling. “Here, Ida, you take this; I’m not that hungry.” Jacqueline thought to herself that she would rather give both croissants to Ida than have to deliver a baby.
Jacqueline strained her eyes to see through the thicket of trees. Some of the houses they had come upon were not recognizable. Jacqueline glanced at the burnt-out homes and wondered what they had looked like before the war. More often than not, they came upon a single chimney
. She could not tell if the house had been burned by accident or at the hands of the Indians or Yankees.
“Ida, you’re not from New Orleans are you?”
“No, I’se not.” Ida chewed hungrily on the croissant.
“Well, how did you get there?”
Ida glanced at Jacqueline. “I was just a little girl, bout seven, staying in Charleston at the missus’ house and polishing her silver when she say to me, “Ida, take this pie down to Mrs. Hammond’s house.” When I got back, Master Robert, he says I looked at him in a disrespectful way. I did not think I did, and if I did, I did not mean to. Master Robert, he took a leather whip and beat my brother and me all over the place. It wasn’t long after that we left and went to stay with Aunt Beulah down in Louisiana.”
Jacqueline glanced away seeing Ida’s tear-filled dark eyes.
“You feel all right?” asked Jacqueline.
“Yessum,” said Ida.
“Well, I don’t.” Jacqueline removed a bottle of whiskey from her satchel and turned it up to her mouth. She placed the bottle between her legs. “You want some of this, Ida?”
Ida shot Jacqueline a long side-glance. “No, shure don’t.”
Jacqueline reached into her satchel, rummaged around and found a small piece of paper and a fountain pen.
“Good. Ida, I’m going to give you enough money to get you back home to New Orleans. I’m writing down the address of my friend Dr. Chandler, in Atlanta. He’ll check you over and make sure you’re strong enough to travel. I’ll ask him to make arrangements for you to get to New Orleans.”
Ida’s eyes widened. “You shure he gonna do dis?”
Jacqueline touched her gold bracelet, gave a smug smile, and said, “He’s an honorable man, who has a heart.” Jacqueline paused and stood up. “We must hurry, before all the people north of Atlanta know of our travels and send out a pack of dogs to hunt us down.”
In a little over an hour, they had almost arrived at their destination when they came upon an entire black Baptist congregation, baptizing sinners into saints in the river. The words of the preacher echoed through the oaks and magnolias and Ida felt as if the hand of God had touched her.
Jacqueline glanced at the reverend who appeared to be in his fifties. Circled around him were a flock of women, both old and young, dressed in fine Sunday dresses and fancy hats. Among the women was a brother or two with work-worn hands and wearing Sunday go- to-meeting hats. They glanced up with curious eyes and no small amount of appreciation and shock to see, walking out of the bushes, one fancy woman carrying a brown satchel with a cat’s head poking out, and a soon- to-deliver colored woman. A nervous reverend smiled, showing a multitude of white teeth. He held out his hand and said, “Afternoon, ladies.”
Jacqueline took the reverend’s hand, noticing it was cold but, of course, he had just gotten out of the river water. Tears filled Jacqueline’s eyes. “We’ve been lost in these woods for hours, lost, just walking around trying to find our way.”
Suspicious, the reverend sniffed, smelled the whiskey and Jacqueline flaunting her perfume and seductive gaze. He glanced back at his congregation and said, “Praise the Lord; he has delivered these fine ladies.”
They shook hands and Jacqueline leaned close to the reverend. “My maid Ida is a widow; lost her husband on the railroad.”
The reverend looked surprised. “He was building the railroad?”
“No, he was run over by a train,” said Jacqueline.
“I see,” said the reverend with a serious look on his face.
Jacqueline glanced at him and whispered, “Took off his leg.”
“Gangrene, I’m sure.” The reverend winked.
Jacqueline nodded. “It would have been pure hell if he had to limp around.”
A few of the congregation members gasped as they stopped on the riverbank and listened.
“And might I ask where a woman of your stature is from?” The reverend inquired.
“I am a lady, dear sir, and please address me as such,” said Jacqueline. Ida gave Jacqueline a sideways look, but did not dare say a word.
The reverend said, “Yes, well, of course, that goes without saying. It would take a fool not to be able to see that you are a fine lady, a fine lady indeed. And what did you say your name is, dear lady?”
In less than an hour, Jacqueline had shared her whiskey with the reverend, improved Ida’s social standing from sinner to widowed saint, and handed the reverend enough money to buy song books for his entire congregation.
By the end of the afternoon, thunderclouds and lightning had moved in. Jacqueline straightened her spine and closed her satchel to conceal the cat. She now stood in front of Mae Patterson’s bordello. Jacqueline turned to the sound of water and watched it drip off the lush green ferns that hung on the vast wrap- around front porch. She saw lightning flash through the hot summer sky and jumped at a thunderclap. She put down her bag and peered into the rose-stained glass window. A housemaid carried crisp linens down the hall, fresh-cut roses stood tall in a multi-faceted crystal vase. She exhaled, relieved that Dr. Chandler had made this arrangement for her. She pressed her sultry face to the glass, and batted her thick, black lashes when the front door opened.
Jacqueline took a deep breath and studied the young black woman who stood before her, wearing a cheerful cotton dress. Her nappy black hair with a hue of chestnut, was wrapped tight in a white turban. Shiny gold hoops hung low in her ear lobes. “Hi, I’m Priscilla,” she said to Jacqueline. “Would you care for a glass of cold lemonade?”
“Lemonade? I’m sorry I don't drink much lemonade,” said Jacqueline.
“Don’t worry, I don't neither, but it's here if you want it,” Priscilla said as she moved Jacqueline’s bags into the foyer.
“My name is Jacqueline Rousseau. I was referred by Doctor Chandler.”
Priscilla looked down at Jacqueline’s feet. Her red skirt, fashionably tapered, crinkled when she moved and exposed her black, jet beaded boots. A well-designed red and black satin bustle rested seductively on her rounded derriere. Sheer black, French lace, which fit provocatively over a black silk camisole shrouded her bust, and then narrowed at her wrist. A magnificent pair of gold and ruby drop earrings with a matching multi-tiered ruby pendant sparkled against Jacqueline’s luminous skin. Priscilla stared and decided this ain’t no common whore. Priscilla’s voice lowered. “Doctor Chandler, yes’sum, he told us you’d be coming. I’se have a lot of regard for dat man.” Priscilla threw her shoulders back. “The girls say nice things about Doc Chandler.” She let out a hearty laugh and waved her small brown hand.
Jacqueline smiled a smug smile.
Priscilla turned the lamp on in the hall and escorted Jacqueline up the wide, winding oak staircase. Plush oriental rugs of blues and reds carpeted the halls.
Jacqueline looked up and observed the gilt painted ceilings and the elaborate crown molding. The smell of fried chicken and apple pie filled the air; three or four servants were on duty. The house was clean and did not have the musty odor that the house in Atlanta had. She could not have been more “at home.”
A young girl appeared, a child of no more than twelve, with tight bouncy curls and a giddy innocence.
Priscilla scowled at the girl. “Little one, Miz Mae sees you coming down the hall in not a thing but your drawers, she’ll have my hide.”
They walked past an open bedroom where two girls with matching faces lay on their sides, with their hands touching. Priscilla closed the door. The stairs creaked; Jacqueline felt a warm hand touch her back. She turned and there stood the mistress of the house. Mae Patterson had eyes like a snake, below well-defined brows. Her coiffed hair was blond with tight ringlets that dangled down the nape of her neck. Her face was cold with mature lines and she never blinked. She placed her hands on her hips, smiled an evil smile through thin lips, stared at Jacqueline, and said, “Does their age shock you?” Jacqueline looked hard into the woman's stoic face and said, “Nothing… shocks me.”
&nbs
p; Mae extended a pale, shaky hand. “I have been eager to meet the most talked about woman east of Orleans.” Mae glanced back at the twin girls. Rest your mind; they are far better off. They came to me from a former slave owner who held them in bondage over in Beaufort.” She sighed. “It’s an ugly business at times, and when it comes to the girl’s age, it has been a political disagreement.” She looked Jacqueline up and down. “I understand you are a real money-maker.”
With a fixed stare on Mae, Jacqueline gave a slight smile.
“You don’t have any scars, do you?” asked Mae.
Jacqueline tilted her head. “Do you want me to strip?” Mae clenched her bony white knuckles.
“Priscilla will be your maid. She will take care of all your personal needs.” Mae’s voice deepened, her eyes narrowed, her face grew tight. She pointed a thin jeweled finger at Jacqueline. “Now, you listen to me. I run a first-class place here. I do not allow no drugs, no disease, no guns, and I will throw your ass in the street if you steal. If you have any secrets, you will not have them long around here. I warn you, don’t try and pull any fast tricks. I have seen them all; there ain’t a thing that goes on here that I do not know about, and if I don’t, it will not be long until I catch you. The rules of this house are simple: the man rules here. It is your job to arouse him and keep him happy. Take his money and do not get any ideas. I do not allow any of my girls to steal from our patrons. If you get caught, the punishment is severe. I furnish your meals, your board, Priscilla will see that your laundry gets done, and we work on a forty-fifty split.”