Laelia

by Ruth-Miriam Garnett

  Leighton kissed Rebecca fervently; then brushing her face and neck with his lips, murmured her name over and over. Rebecca, overcome by his ardor, let her hands travel down his back to his buttocks. She held them firmly while he moved on top of her, the length of his torso grazing her breasts and stomach until he hardened. She gasped when he entered her, and not wanting him to pause, she wrapped her legs around his waist. She held on to him with both arms, freeing one hand to stroke the stiff waves of his hair. Rebecca heard herself moan as Leighton altered his rhythm, coming in and out of her slowly, then plunging into her hard, then slowing his thrusts again. After several minutes of their love dance, they climaxed together. Rebecca knew in that instant that while Leighton claimed her body, he had given his soul.

  They made love again after sleeping. Rebecca heard Claudia come up from the kitchen around ten-thirty, and Gracelyn climbing the stairs to the attic sometime after one. Discovery seemed unimportant to her as she lay beside Leighton, watching him sleep. She loved that each time he awoke he kissed her. The last time, an hour before sunrise, she whispered to him that this would be the last time she asked him to leave, but that he should go. Leighton, sleepy but cheerful, obliged.

  Saturday morning, after sleeping a few hours, Rebecca sat on her bed, languorously brushing her unwound hair. She noticed she wasn’t at all tired in spite of the missed sleep. Sensing Leighton would call, she answered the phone when it rang.

  “Hello, darling. I met Wayne. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Wayne? Was he here at that hour?” Rebecca asked, thinking that he may have come by to retrieve some tools he needed for early Saturday work at another job.

  “Yes, he was in the hall when I came out of the bathroom.”

  “He was upstairs?”

  “Yes. Nice guy. But he was wearing a pink bathrobe. What’s his story?”

  “Wayne is my landscaper.”

  Rebecca knew immediately what had transpired. Wayne had been with Claudia that evening, and had spent the night. Rebecca smiled to herself, mildly shocked. Thankful that Leighton didn’t press her to explain, Rebecca listened as he told her he would start making plans for their trip in the next few days.

  “If we go to Paris first, we can fly to Senegal for about a hundred dollars. And, I’ll book a hotel on the beach.”

  “How long will we be in Paris?”

  “As long as you like.”

  “I can’t believe you. You are so wonderful to me.”

  “That won’t change.”

  Rebecca believed her lover. Etched in her mind were the words she could not say. I lied to you. I came to Bloomington to get information on Julia Wilson. I plan to use what you told me against her husband, our pastor. He has to leave our congregation and leave this town. My sisters and I deserve the lives we are starting over. We are everything he despises. We are women, and he has no control over what we do. And we frighten him. We frighten all men like him. We frightened our husbands because we were who we are. We are Cates women. We have a legacy. Our legacy is each other, not our wombs.

  Rebecca felt that without her clarity of purpose, she would not survive. She also understood that today, being with Leighton, was the happiest day of her life. If the war she waged against Wilson cost her this happiness, she would go on with her life, filling her loss in the way she always had. She would run her orchid business, see to the family estate, have her sisters as companions. But the whole point of the war was to have something more. Perhaps, she thought, something more for her would be the memory of Leighton’s loving her with such intensity.

  “I have to tell him. He has to know,” she said out loud. “If he can still love me, I’ll make it up to him.”

  Rebecca rewound her hair and went to pull out her clothes. Excited about the Tubman play, today she would wear something colorful.

  Claudia, already bustling about the kitchen, encountered her sister.

  “I’ve never seen you in that shirt, Rebecca. You look wonderful in lilac.”

  “Thank you, dear. How was your evening?”

  “Good,” Claudia replied, poker-faced. “I’m making headway on the tea sandwiches and Wayne made the shopping a piece of cake. He even stayed to help me roll out the cookie dough. I think he’s a natural in the kitchen. He looks so strong, but he’s got such a gentle touch—with women’s work.”

  “I can imagine. He’s a very nice man. You should ask him out sometime.”

  “Oh, Rebecca, I’m glad you said that. I already have. He’s going to meet me at the Hillary speech. Turns out, he likes her as much as I do.”

  “That’s wonderful, Claudia. It’s good for you to have a companion.”

  Gracelyn, dressed in a turquoise jumpsuit of Indian cotton, bounded frantically into the kitchen, grabbed a Granny Smith apple from the enormous fruit bowl, and bounded out.

  “See you all this evening,” she said, blowing kisses. “I’m too nervous to sit still.”

  “Try to calm down,” Rebecca advised, advice she knew was futile. “Everything will go well.”

  Claudia protested, “Gracelyn, you better take more than that to eat. You’ll faint by lunchtime.”

  Gracelyn reentered, walking rapidly to the refrigerator. The shelves were full of Claudia’s tea sandwiches.

  “Take a few sandwiches,” Claudia advised. “Wait, you sit down, and I’ll pack your lunch. Hand me your backpack.”

  Claudia worked efficiently making Gracelyn’s lunch, chattering at her about going too long without food and getting all worked up over things. Rebecca, amused by the exchange, stifled a smile.

  “Lucy meeting you at the church?”

  “Yes, Rebecca. Claudia, thanks.”

  “Break a leg.”

  Gracelyn exited, racing toward the front door, leaving as hastily as she had come in, her energy at an all-time high.

  “And be calm!” Claudia yelled after her as she watched Gracelyn jogging toward her car, her backpack bouncing up and down like an ill-attached papoose.

  “That girl,” Claudia exclaimed, bustling into the kitchen. Seating herself at the table, she returned to her croissant. She paused, looking sidelong at Rebecca.

  Rebecca, noticing, said to her, “What are you thinking, dear?”

  Claudia finished chewing the pastry. “Do you think Wayne’s a good catch? I mean, for someone, a mature woman.”

  “I think what’s important is what you think.”

  “What I think? Well, I don’t really know him that well. But he’s pleasant company, that’s certain enough. And he’s a very tender man. I imagine a man like that knows right where to touch a woman, not going too fast and making her feel like she’s a sack of potatoes.”

  “Uhm hum. Probably so. He looks the sort to make a woman feel precious, like a jewel or a flower. Definitely not like . . . what was that you said, potatoes?”

  “Yes, that’s the best way I could think of to describe it.”

  “Honey, it’s good you’re thinking that way, because I believe that might be a common problem. It’s hard to unlearn menfolk in that vein. Well now,” Rebecca sighed, “I myself think Wayne would be a very good catch, that is, if he wants to be caught.”

  Claudia blushed, now sipping her tea. She was silent, having heard from Rebecca what she wanted to hear.

  Rebecca finished her coffee and made oatmeal for Jake and Timothy. When Claudia rose from the table, she turned back to her sister.

  “Leave all that. You get a move on so you have time to do your makeup. I want you and Wayne sitting right in front of Hillary.”

  “Thanks, Rebecca.”

  “And be sure to ask him if he wants to come to the play. We can all go together. That way, there won’t be any heads turning around to inspect.”

  After a clear morning and afternoon, the evening of the play performance was balmy and pleasant. The parishioners arrived early and gathered outside the church, enjoying a breeze and stars that began to emerge as dusk fell. They filed slowly into the church basem
ent, their heads turning to admire the newly draped stage with very professional-looking lighting fixtures. On one wall, they noted blown-up black-and-white photographs of Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, and Nat Turner. Smaller photos showed anonymous slaves working in fields, young black girls holding white babies, and several men whose heads, arms, and feet were confined by torture instruments. Underneath the photos on a large mahogany table was a book exhibit of slave narratives and bound abolitionist speeches.

  The playgoers milled around for several minutes, enthralled by the display, until all but one row of the overhead lights was turned off, signaling the play was about to begin. They lifted red fold-over programs from their seats and began to inspect them carefully, murmuring the names of their children as they spotted them listed underneath the parts they were playing. The parishioners assumed a curious silence as the Greek chorus, Herbert leading, filed in and took its position in three rows to the left of the raised platform.

  The first voice they heard was Herbert’s, ringing out, “Harriet Tubman. A play by Constance Enright.”

  Herbert adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath, and signaled the other chorus members with a nod. They began their narration in perfect unison.

  Gracelyn, watching backstage from behind a thick curtain, relaxed after the strong beginning. She knew then that her scrupulous rehearsing of the children would reflect in the evening’s performance. As the first narrative ended, the curtain rose to reveal Melba Sims as Harriet Tubman, standing alone center stage, a single beam of light highlighting her frame. As Gracelyn had instructed her, her eyes were focused slightly above her audience’s heads, and she began speaking after drawing a deep diaphragmatic breath.

  “Massa beat me for the last time,” she said in a defiant tone of voice. “In a week, I’m gone from this place. Whether my man goes with me or not, I’m leaving here.”

  Her head raised and her arm pointing overhead, she continued.

  “That should be the North Star. My, it’s pretty. That star is going to show me the way north. I’m not meant to be a slave, and I’m not going to live like one. If they want to stop me, they’ll have to kill me. But I know sure enough they bleed too.”

  At that, Melba pulled a gun from inside a cloth pouch tied around her waist just as Carl, one of Raphaela’s boys, playing her husband, entered from stage right. Quickly, Melba replaced the gun in her pouch.

  “Harriet, what are you doing out here so late? Massa see you, he’ll beat you again.”

  “Massa will beat me again anyway. That’s why I’m heading north.”

  “We talked about that. You can’t go north without me. I’m your husband.”

  “Slaves don’t have husbands or wives. You want to be married to me, you’ll go to freedom alongside me.”

  “You’re my wife and I love you, Harriet. But I can’t do it. I want us both to stay here so at least we can stay alive.”

  “I choose death over being a slave. I’m going without you.”

  “Lord, woman. I know I can’t stop you. But be careful. I’ll be your lookout as far as the next county.”

  “God bless you. You’re the only one I can trust not to say anything.”

  The couple embraced and exited hand in hand.

  The performance continued seamlessly. The one exception to Gracelyn’s agenda was Renee Bartleson, who appeared onstage as part of a procession of runaways behind Melba. Renee had endowed herself with an enormous bosom by stuffing two rolled-up dish-cloths inside her blouse. There were scattered snickers when she first appeared onstage, though much of the audience failed to notice, and afterward everyone remained engrossed in the drama. Backstage, Gracelyn quickly pulled out Renee’s padding and tossed it aside.

  At the end of the play, the audience stood to applaud the young performers. At the reception following, Gracelyn was hugged and kissed over and over by the children’s mothers, and her hand grasped and shaken to soreness by their fathers. Graciously forgiving of Renee Bartleson’s improvised costume, she delivered the girl to her sheepish parents.

  “I was happy to work with Renee,” she told them. “She’s extremely bright, and I was often overimaginative as a child myself. Don’t worry about anything, it all went fine. The next play we put on, we’ll give her more to do so she won’t be bored.”

  The Bartlesons left the church hurriedly with their brood, grateful that none of their neighbors commented on their daughter’s misstep.

  Reverend Wilson, however, was one of the audience members who noticed Renee’s indiscretion, and the next morning at service he did indeed comment, citing “the ways of wanton young folk” as cannon fodder for his sermon. Rebecca was certain he would return to this topic over and over in the weeks to come, in concert with the subject of keeping women shackled to their men. By meeting with the trustees and revealing his misappropriation of church monies, she could easily silence his offensive message and send him packing. But understanding what she stood to lose, this power was of small comfort. Rebecca, her teeth clenched, resolved in her heart to bear Reverend Wilson’s hostility for the time being, and wait for a door to open.

  But the pastor’s rant escalated.

  “The Devil has entered our parish in the guise of womanly flesh. What was presented to me as an innocent idea, a children’s entertainment, has turned out to be an opportunity for debasement and self-exhibition by a young girl. It pains me to say that youth has been led astray by a trusted role model. We must face this evil directly. Wily Satan has sown tares in the precious field of our young people’s minds. He has caused the unseemly display of our precious young womanhood, and should we stand still, God’s enemy will certainly reap a rich harvest within our midst. I charge the director of this work to make full apology to our congregation at large, and especially to this young girl and her parents. I charge her parents to commit to more attentive guidance of this child on the brink of throwing away her virtue. If you doubt what I am saying, just look at what we are able to see every day on television, our young people’s morals continually deteriorating.”

  A stunned silence, then noisy twitter engulfed the congregation. Amelia Bartleson, seated with Renee and her other children, began sobbing, her hands covering her face.

  Rebecca could not believe what she was hearing. Glancing over at Gracelyn, she was alarmed at the pained look on her sister’s face. Claudia, her head erect and delicate jaw set, instinctively placed her arm around Gracelyn’s shoulders. She understood, as did Rebecca, that Gracelyn’s victory of the previous evening was a hard-won feat, a way that she was able to mend what had broken inside her over the years. It attested to her creativity and ability to do something difficult and worthy, offsetting the enormous wound of her marriage that cast such a broad shadow over her spirit. Rebecca feared it was too delicate a triumph to withstand the malice and brutality of this assault.

  Wilson ended his diatribe by announcing an unscheduled meeting of the trustees for Wednesday evening.

  Stunned, but quickly composing herself, Rebecca rose from her seat.

  “Thank you, Pastor, for your announcements. My brothers and sisters, as you know, I seldom contribute to the length of our service, but today is a very special day. My sister Claudia has made grand preparations for our afternoon tea, and we are excited to welcome our churchwomen into our home.”

  The parishioners had seen Rebecca stand up in church on just two occasions, following the deaths of Reuben, then Mattie, and each time to thank them for their expressions of sympathy.

  “I want also to inform the pastor and trustees that I will be attending their meeting. The matter I will be presenting is of grave concern to our congregation, and it will need to be first on the agenda. Due to the seriousness of the matter, I must hold it in strictest confidence until I am able to disclose it to our respected leaders. I am glad Pastor has voiced his concern with the spiritual destiny of our youth, because there is a great threat among us to this very destiny and the moral fiber we have preserved
over the years as a congregation.”

  Rebecca sat down again, checkmate accomplished. She heard the volume of the twitters increase and saw the slight scowl on Wilson’s face. She knew he had no inkling of the information she was to present, and was merely irked that she had not asked permission to attend the impromptu meeting. Rebecca had stated deliberately that she would be attending, and that she would be first on the agenda. Rebecca’s announcement accomplished two things. First, she trumped his sensationalism, refocusing the entire crowd’s attention on the mysterious problem she alluded to. Second, she declared war on Wilson, openly and unmistakably, apparent to all except him.

  Rebecca was gracious later that afternoon, as dozens of ebullient women filed into the Cates mansion, lingering first in the front hallway, transfixed by the polished brass mirror, gleaming tile floor, and flower arrangements. Next, they filtered into the dining room, where a lavish table of miniature sandwiches, hors d’oeuvres, and crudités awaited them. Claudia had placed two of Mattie’s crystal punch bowls at either end of the table, one filled with cranberry juice and ginger ale, the other with soft peaks of lemon sherbet afloat on pineapple juice mixed with sparkling water. Still reeling from the previous night’s performance, several of the women spoke about how polished the children had been in their roles. None of the women questioned Rebecca about what she would tell the trustees, all respecting the confidentiality she had mentioned earlier that day, some more because of her authoritative bearing than of a lessening of their curiosity. Claudia, however, was complimented over and over for her food preparation. Some of the women, not accustomed to eating caviar and pâté, understood that they were being very specially treated, in addition to being transported by the elegant surroundings.

  Nearly all the women embraced Gracelyn at one point or other during the afternoon, entreating her to do more projects and offering to assist. She quickly recovered the euphoria she had felt before being upbraided from the pulpit. Rebecca, noticing, sighed deeply and offered a silent prayer of thanks.

  After the women had been at the mansion for an hour, Claudia, in a navy-and-white-checked circular skirt and sleeveless white cotton shirt with generous pointed collars, and looking as though she never sweated, walked to the center of the living room and raised her voice above the din.