Blackwater

by Tara Brown

  People see the sweet smile and soft eyes of the wealthy wife. They don’t hear the way her voice twangs the cuss word screw. What they don’t know is the other person inside of her. The poor white trash little girl, who was raised on the edge of a bayou, with no shoes. They don’t know about the money grubbing and uncivilized beast that hides its scales beneath the soft pale skin of Mrs. Huntington.

  But I know who she is. I'm the only one.

  Grandmamma Holt, Ramón's grandmamma, showed me where my momma grew up. It's on the drive out to Ramón's grandmamma's house. She slowed down as we passed and told me the story about how she knew her when momma was a girl. She used to buy fish from her.

  I can never forget the image. The fat man standing at the door of the trailer, with the pit stains on his white t-shirt and dirty green pants. It still haunts my dreams. Grandmamma narrated the tale as we drove by slowly. I had my face pressed against the glass, watching him just as he watched me from the porch. We were kin and yet we were perfect strangers.

  I can't imagine the terrors my momma was subjected to in that stale old trailer. She was raised on the edge of the gator-infested waters, where huge haunted-looking cypress trees, with their trunks covered in wild red moss, made up her yard. It looked like the bloody water of the swamp washed up onto the base of the huge trees and dried there. It's still the only real color I see when I close my eyes and imagine the picture of her house.

  Nothing about her home made me feel like I wanted to get to know my granddaddy. Grandmamma Holt told me that he was bayou scum - part of the filth that gives Louisiana's bayous their mysterious charm. Personally, I prefer the streets of New Orleans and the mansions of the plantations. I even prefer the graveyards with the tombs and vaults, containing the dead who will never rest in the soggy earth of New Orleans. We called them the Louisiana army. They are mummies awaiting the magic of New Orleans to wake them and march them through Bourbon Street with a jazz funeral leading the way.

  I prefer that image to my own granddaddy, who ain't even allowed to be dead to me. He is alive and walking, but he is deader than the dead. He is nonexistent because my momma never lived that life.

  Her life never happened and her daddy never raised her. The story has always been that an aunt in New Orleans raised her. Her aunt died and momma went to finishing school where she became fast friends with my Aunt Tessa. Momma was wed to my daddy, Tessa's brother, the year she finished school and the old man in the bayou never existed. My momma never starved and sold white perch on the edge of the bayou, outside of a trailer looking lost and alone.

  Seeing her sad and alone and abused on the side of the road doesn’t make me feel sorry enough for her that I can find love for her. I pity her in the way I pity a criminal who is punished for stealing to feed his family. They don’t know any better. That doesn’t make me love them or her.

  I look at the grand front entryway of the mansion as we step inside and gasp. It's massive, with a showcase Imperial staircase, just like the one at Twelve Oaks, in Gone With The Wind. That will always be my favorite movie. I feel tiny and excited the moment I see the inside of the house. Ladies hold drinks and stand littered along the stairs and the main entrance. It feels like Gone With The Wind. It feels like there will be a ball and I will dance with Ashley Wilkes, while eyeing up Rhett Butler. I think deep down I'm a Rhett Butler sort of girl.

  Emily squeezes my arm. "Wow. What a staircase!" she whispers excitedly.

  I nod. I have no words. Nothing would come close to the emotions inside of me. There are too many and I'm too exposed.

  Momma's eyes interrupt my staring. She is fixated on me. I must look like a country bumpkin gawking at the finery, like we live in a slum somewhere.

  I stand up straight and suck everything in. It makes me sweat more, but I fan myself lazily and try to look unimpressed.

  "Martin is over by the bar." Momma whispers to me and walks away with Daddy. Emily and I let go of each other. We are royalty of the South. We are not to clutch each other in fear. We do not fear the fine people around us. They are not strangers. They are my kin. My family that is forced upon me based on class and wealth.

  In truth, I'm not comfortable with any of them, except Angie. When I see her all my fear and pain melts. Relief fills me as she comes rushing up. Her face is a huge beaming grin. She has no doubt been at something unholy.

  "Why Miss Huntington, you look ravishing. Or rather like you'll be ravished. That dress leaves nothing to the imagination. Let me guess, your dear mother is trying to make an attempt at closing the deal on the cattle sale?" Her sarcasm is duly noted and her giggle tells of liquor and a cigar possibly. I laugh and pinch her arm.

  Emily gives her a look and rolls her eyes. "Yes, well, this dress fit two weeks ago. Now however, it seems our mother had it taken in to ensure the assets that sweeten the deal are being displayed properly." We speak properly in public, always.

  Angie feigns a surprised look, "Not your sweet mother, who only ever has your best intentions and desires in mind. I refuse to believe that. Let's get a drink shall we." Emily waves me off and goes looking for Greg. She always is looking for Greg. He never chases her. He never is the assertive one and she seems content with it, or even to prefer it. He truly is the sweetest boy in all the South.

  I can't help but wonder if Emily has nailed it on the head. Has our dear mother taken my dress in because she too heard the rumors about Martin Ryan?

  The night smells of bourbon and cigars. Only the women drink from flutes and even then it's only the proper women. Free thinking women, like Angie, drink from rock glasses.

  I see a woman with short dark hair in a pantsuit and know, we have Yankees at the party. Women from California and New York are infamous for their freethinking and feminism and pantsuits. My daddy cusses about it regularly. The civil rights act has him, and every other gentleman in Louisiana, frothing at the bit. I like to watch them froth over something I secretly admire, but am too well trained to speak of.

  I spy Martin at the bar, holding a rock glass and smiling at a woman in a red dress. It fits like mine does and his eyes are planted in her chest, just like a cad would. Just like Angie said he was. I blush and look down. I have been dressed like a whore for him. He is not the man I thought he was. He is the other kind, not a real gentleman. I've been fooled and no doubt my momma knows what kind of man he is.

  I shake my head and avert my eyes, "On second thought, Angie, I don’t want to find him." She's right, I don’t want a man who has already tasted the whole world without me.

  She smirks and turns us to the right. I see him catch my eye. He smiles but I don’t. He is smiling at my dress and the prospect of taking it off. I can't smile at that. I'm a lady.

  Angie drags me to the parlor, where the French doors are open, revealing a massive patio. We step out into the night and I know she feels it too. The Louisiana air sparkles at night. Mystery and old magic can't help but float in the heavy air with the soft jazz music.

  She grips my hand. She knows.

  I can feel tears surfacing.

  My dress is so tight that the tears don't reach my face, thankfully. They're trapped in the satin somewhere.

  She passes me a smoke and lights her own. She holds the flame out for me.

  I drag from it as it lights and the soothing feeling of the smoke fills my lungs. Instantly, the pain in my head is gone. I enjoy the lightheaded feeling I get. Angie says it's because I only socially smoke and if I smoked regularly it would go away. But I don’t want it to. I like it. I like feeling like I'm not completely inside of my body. Like the smoke has pushed some of me out to make room for it.

  "Miss Huntington, you look remarkable this evening." The voice behind my back is familiar. I want to groan and turn with the sweetest sickly smile spread across my lips, but I can't. Instead, I giggle like a fool because I'm dizzy from the cigarette and the face Angie is making. I turn still giggling like I have no breeding. I exhale my cigarette in the face of the man my daddy wants to
sell me to.

  "Why Mr. Ryan, you look remarkable yourself." Angie speaks with a confidence I know he hates. They all hate it. They all hate her. But she doesn’t care and that makes me love her more.

  His lip fights the grimace he wants to give, but that his own breeding won't allow. I see him now. I see the fake smiles and the fake manners. I see the way he fights his eyes when he looks at me and they try to seek my heaving chest.

  "Shall we take a walk?" He puts an arm out for me. I pass her my cigarette and take his arm. "Certainly." I am not allowed to answer differently and he knows it.

  Angie smokes both cigarettes. I laugh at her again. She turns and enjoys the magic of the evening.

  "You really shouldn’t be with a girl like her. Her parents have been allowing her in New York too often. I hear she stays at their place in the city on her own. No supervision. Plus she's a wicked gossip. Girls like that get a reputation.“ His words are soft but the tone is scolding me nonetheless.

  I feel my back straighten. "Girls like Margery Banks, you mean?" My voice couldn’t be sweeter.

  His cheeks blush. He smiles but doesn’t lose the control over himself, that only well-bred gentlemen know how to maintain.

  I know the truth about him.

  He is a cad, like Rhett Butler but not as attractive and that was really the only thing Rhett had going for himself. That and his cocky smile.

  He is a cad and I have fooled myself long enough about him and the foolish notion of marrying to make my family happy. Losing Ramón has changed things for me. Changed the way I see things. Maybe Mr. Whitlock has also had a hand in it. Either way, I do not want this. I'm young and I want to see the world first.

  He walks us away from the party before speaking again, "Girls like Margery Banks are fun for a boy to date, for a time. Not the kind of girl a man would marry though. Your friend Angie is the same sort of girl." His voice has a hidden sneer that I can hear but can't see past the charming smile.

  I watch him and know, I will never marry this man.

  A gentleman doesn’t speak ill of a woman he hardly knows. My daddy has misjudged his breeding. Damned Yankees. We may be Southerners; we may talk slow and be simple in a lot of ways, but we don't disrespect people we don’t know and we don’t let anyone mess with one of ours.

  I notice how far we've walked away from the party when my heels dig into the gravel and destabilize my balance. I'm reliant on his arm now, as we walk down the path to the gazebo. My stomach flips and squirms like a fish is in there. He passes me his bourbon.

  "Thank you." I gulp a huge drink of it. The warmth fills my stomach and I recall not having any dinner. Momma forbid it after my dress didn't fit. I need to get away from him. I need to find my daddy and call the whole thing off before it gets too serious.

  He stops walking and takes the glass from my hands. He swallows the last of it and tosses the glass out into the grass.

  He looks down on me with intensity. My heart stops beating completely. I know what's about to happen.

  The moon gives off just enough light that I can see the color of his eyes. He is beautiful. Tanned skin, bright-white straight teeth, dark-blond hair, and stunning blue eyes. He looks like a Beach Boy mixed with a Kennedy. His grin is mischievous and confident. He lowers his face on mine and kisses me softly. His lips don’t pry or try to open my mouth. He kisses the way he should, like a gentleman.

  It's a soft kiss at first. Slowly his mouth starts to work on mine. He takes his time, expertly. His lips caress mine as his hands close around my back. He holds me so tightly against him that my breasts are popping out the top of my dress. He lips leave mine, leaving me breathless. They travel down my cheek to my neck.

  "We can't do this." I whisper.

  He whispers back, like a lover would in the dark and the moonlight, "You're so much prettier than I imagined you would be. Beautiful even." His hands move to the front of me and slide up my stomach until they reach my chest. He cups my breasts and kisses the tops of them.

  I'm panicking.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I feel my hands twitching with want to slap him or push him away. All that finishing school and I'm left unprepared for this.

  He slips a hand down the top of my dress, cupping my breast and rolling my nipple. I lose my self-control, "Stop!" I push him and stagger back. I don’t get away very fast because my heels get stuck in the grass.

  He catches me and grabs my arm, spinning me. His grip tightens slightly. He smiles coyly, "You want to wait until we are married?"

  I shake my head and close my eyes, "I don't want to marry you." I feel sick that I have said it out loud. I jerk my arms free and turn to walk back to the house, but again he grabs my arm and spins me around. His greedy hands are on me, pulling and groping. I push against his chest but he's hard as a rock.

  His eyes are hard and mean. "Well little girl, that isn't a decision you get to make. Your father and mine have made the deal. You are mine." His words are scary and firm. The way he mocks me and controls me already makes my stomach cramp with fear. I want his hands off of me. I feel dirty just being near him.

  The scary dominating look leaves his face. He smiles softly, "I just want a kiss, Lorelei. I want a small taste of just how sweet you really are." His voice is scaring me. I push against him again and lose my shoe to the grass. I stumble out of his arms and hobble up the gravel pulling at my dress.

  "Lorelei, come back." His voice is frighteningly demanding. I hurry when I hear his footsteps on the grass.

  Tears are flooding my eyes. I refuse to cry. "Asshole." I mutter. I won't cry for him. I won't cry because it's not the right place to cry. I was raised right. I was raised to hold it back, hold back the shame I want so badly to feel. As I round the corner, I feel hands on me again. I open my mouth to scream, but I see something I never imagined I would.

  "Mr. Whitlock." His name flies from my lips, but it's muffled from his warm fingers over my lips. I try to straighten my dress and control my breathing. I'm certain my hair is a mess from the struggle. At least if he's looking at the mess it is, he ain't looking at my nearly exposed chest.

  He pulls me into his arms, "It's okay, Lorelei. I've got you now."

  If a southern girl is a sucker for anything, it's a strong man holding her and keeping her safe. The second he holds me to him, I burst.

  "I'm gonna kill him." he mutters. He saw. He knows I was just assaulted on the lawn. He saw it all.

  Shame is filling me faster than I can push it down, like a proper girl does. I'm trembling and his warm lips against the top of my head are wreaking havoc on my heartstrings. I think he is pulling them all, but at least I feel safe.

  "You can't go back to the party like this, want to walk?" he whispers. His voice has an edge to it.

  I nod against him. He wraps his hand around mine and pulls me with him. I hobble along until he turns around to the far side of the house, the side I've just run from. I claw at his arm, "Not this way."

  He holds me tight and pulls me along, "We need to get your shoe."

  Bile rises in my throat. I shake my head and tremble, but he holds my hand tightly and kisses the top of it, "I'm here now. If he is out there, he doesn't want to come near you; it won't be good for him. You're safe. Men like him are chicken shits anyway. If he sees me, he'll be all handshakes and kindness. It's only when he gets a girl alone that he shows his true colors."

  I look up into his dark eyes and feel the truth in his words. I'm safe. He wipes my tears away and takes my hands again. He pulls me along. I try not to hobble or limp, but the difference between the shoe and my foot is huge. I peek past him as we round the corner of the house. Martin ain't nowhere to be seen.

  "He went the other way I think." he says disappointedly, but looks around with me. He seems more like he is scouting, hoping Martin is still back here. Seeing the fierceness in his eyes, I have a slight hope Martin comes back as well.

  We are alone on the back grass that’s dotted with huge tree
s. Through the branches of the tree I'm standing under, I can see the windows full of people. People laughing and dancing and drinking. They are having fun.

  He lets go of me and walks to a spot on the grass where he bends down and then walks back. He kneels in front of me, holding my shoe out.

  "How did you see that?" I ask.

  In the moonlight, I can barely see the smile cross his lips when he speaks, "I was looking for it. Here." He takes my foot and puts the shoe on. I feel like a sweaty version of Cinderella for a small moment. Only a small moment, because being assaulted by the man she would marry wasn’t in any of the versions of the story I've read.

  "Would you like to go to the gazebo?" he points.

  I start to laugh, nervously.

  "What?" His voice is innocent. Martin's was innocent as well.

  Looking down on his face in the moonlight I can't believe the words that are about to leave my lips, "No, thank you. I buried my friend today and I'm exhausted. I'd like to go home and take off this ridiculous dress and soak my poor feet. Not very ladylike, but it's the truth." I sigh.

  He stands and lifts me off the ground in one sweep. He walks toward the gazebo. "It might not be ladylike but I feel the same way. And I dare say, I strive for ladylike in all of the things I do."

  I snicker.

  His eyes grow serious, "I'm sorry about your friend, Lorelei. It's so rare to have a person in your life that is genuinely your friend and for no benefit beyond the fact you are friends. If only I had known how close you two were."

  I frown at him, "What is that supposed to mean?"

  He shrugs, "I would have searched the woods for him. Instead, I waited for the police. I stayed with you. I sent my driver to phone them."

  I was unconscious and he stayed with me. I never knew that. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

  I push away all the bad feelings and just try to focus on not falling out of his arms. His arms that don’t seem to struggle to hold me. I know I weigh more than an average girl my age. I'm strong. Strong enough to get away from Martin.