Duet for Three Hands

by Tess Thompson

  He was growing so tall, she thought. For years they’d been around the same size, but around six months ago, he’d started to grow tall and lean, and now at fourteen—just a year and one month older than Jeselle—he was a full head taller than she.

  “Study of a wounded peach,” she thought. She would tell Whit later. It was her job to name his drawings and paintings.

  He scrambled to his feet, looking up at the sun, mostly likely estimating the time and what it would do to the light. Then he walked toward the kitchen, stopping on the top step and calling out to her, “Jes, please tell Mother I’ll be back for supper, would you?”

  “She won’t like it.” She went to where he stood in the doorway.

  He lowered his voice. “I know. But it’s Saturday.” Mr. Bellmont was home all day on Saturday, and Whitmore did whatever he could to avoid seeing him.

  “I think he’s still in bed.” Sleeping off the booze from the night before, according to Mama, waking only long enough to dictate the menu for supper before falling back to sleep, snoring.

  “But he won’t be for much longer.” He tugged gently on one of her braids. “I’ll bring you a caramel from the candy shop. The biggest one they have.”

  Jeselle washed the plates next, hurrying, pining for the next chapter of Pip and Stella that waited for her on the kitchen table. She was like Pip, she’d decided, even though he was a white boy from England and she was a black housekeeper’s daughter in Atlanta, Georgia. They both longed for things they couldn’t have. She wiped her face on the bottom of her apron, feeling as hot and wet as a bowl of boiled collard greens. It was impossible to imagine that the season would change in a few weeks, bringing relief to Atlanta from the early September air that felt so thick and moist it slowed your every movement.

  Even the garden seemed lethargic, the squash and pumpkin leaves wilted like spent athletes. Dogwood leaves hung from their branches as if they might at any moment unfurl from their precarious attachment and float unfettered to the rust-colored, thirsty soil. Only the sweet, pink-skinned potatoes hidden under the red dirt were unbothered by this relentless summer. She envied them their cool shelter from the sweltering heat.

  Mama returned an hour later, flinging the screen door open with her foot, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  Jeselle, at the table, placed her finger on the last sentence she’d read. Mama’s dress was wet, clinging to the muscles of her back. Without taking off her hat, she set the parcel of meat on the table, her eyes settling briefly on Jeselle’s book, then roaming to the spotless sink and stove, and finally to the hutch, where plates were stacked in their usual places and cups hung from the tiny hooks. Presumably seeing no errors in Jeselle’s task, Mama poured a large glass of water from the tap and drank it in one fluid swallow, her other hand squeezing the rim of the sink. Then, pulling the hairpins from her hat, she took it off and fanned her face.

  “Do you need me to do something, Mama?”

  “Go out to the garden and dig up some of them potatoes. Bring in five or six.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She closed the book, silently repeating, “Second paragraph, page fifty-six,” three times in her head.

  Outside, the morning sun was bright in the vegetable garden, and it burned into the middle of her bare scalp where she parted her hair. After she pulled the potato plant from the ground, she used a small shovel to dig several inches into the dirt and burrowed her fingers into the dry ground, feeling for the round, hard potatoes huddled together like eggs in a nest. There were five altogether. She brushed the dirt from them until their pink skin was visible and then gathered them into her apron.

  Back in the kitchen, Mama had pulled the yellow curtains over the windows so the room had a yellow glow that made the white walls and hutch seem dingy. Mama trimmed blue-tinted fat from the raw meat but stopped when Jeselle came into the kitchen and pointed to the hutch. A tray with biscuits, peach jam, and a pot of tea sat waiting. “You run that up to Miss Frances.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Jeselle took the tray, walking slowly, like she was in quicksand. She hated to go to Frances’s room in the morning, especially the last several weeks. Frances stayed in bed most days.

  Jeselle came to the open door of the sitting room. Mrs. Bellmont looked up from where she was writing at the secretary’s desk. “Morning, baby girl.”

  “Morning, Mrs. Bellmont.”

  “Please see if you can cajole Frances into eating something.”

  “Cajole, Mrs. Bellmont?”

  “Coax, entice, convince. Spelled c-a-j-o-l-e.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, pointing to the locked box next to the desk where they kept Jeselle’s schoolbooks secret from Mr. Bellmont. “I’ll put that on our vocabulary list for next week.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bellmont.” Feeling fortified, released from quicksand, Jeselle went up the stairs quickly, holding onto the top of the teapot with one hand, spelling c-a-j-o-l-e under her breath.

  Frances reclined on a stack of pillows on the bed, a light sheet covering her. The shades were drawn, but even in the muted light her usual alabaster skin appeared sallow and yellow. One hand was on the covers, limp; the other held a handkerchief to her nose. “Girl, there’s the most awful smell in here. I can’t stand it another minute. You simply have to find out what it is.”

  “What does it smell like, Miss Frances?” She put the tray on the bedside table and poured a cup of tea.

  “Like awfulness.”

  “Awfulness?”

  “Like something’s dead.” Frances removed the handkerchief from her nose. “Or wet dog, maybe.”

  Jeselle surveyed the room. Everything seemed in its usual place: the wallpaper scattered with pink roses; the frilly white curtains with embroidered pink edges; the pink velvet chair; a Bible next to Frances’s framed portrait, taken for a debutante party that never happened; and a vase of white daisies, picked by Mrs. Bellmont from the garden. Jeselle went to them and took a big sniff. This was the offender. They smelled like dirty stockings. “It’s the daisies.”

  “Get them out.” Frances sat up slightly, her voice a shriek only in pitch, not volume. “Leave it to mother to try and poison me with those vile weeds.”

  Vile was a good word, Jeselle thought. She put her hands around the vase, carrying it carefully, heading toward the door, thinking of synonyms in her head for vile: revolting, repellent. Another hovered near the corner of her mind. What was it? It also started with an r. Repugnant. That was it.

  “Girl,” Frances screamed, startling Jeselle so that she almost dropped the vase. “Are you listening to me?”

  She turned to look at her. “Yes, Miss Frances?”

  “What did I just say?”

  “The flowers are repugnant?”

  “What?” She wrinkled her smooth forehead, as if looking at a creature, or an anomaly, that couldn’t be explained. “No. My God, you’re a stupid child. I said, ‘Get my hairbrush.’”

  “Shall I take the flowers away first?”

  “No. Yes. I suppose.” Some color returned to Frances’s cheeks. “Then come back and brush my hair.”

  “Yes, Miss Frances.”

  Jeselle disposed of the daisies in the small compost heap Mrs. Bellmont kept at the far end of the garden, near a raised box where Mama grew various strange herbs for medicinal purposes—always aiming to cure Mrs. Bellmont’s bad stomach. When she reentered the kitchen, the scent of browning beef and onions greeted her.

  Chapter 4

  Whitmore

  * * *

  Whitmore stayed out that afternoon as long as he could, drawing under the shade of an oak at the cemetery. He liked it in this quiet place, amongst the dead, although he didn’t walk about, looking at tombstones, imagining the stories of the lives represented there as Jeselle might have. Instead, during his frequent visits, he chose a spot he found beautiful and then either worked on a drawing he’d already started or simply sketched what was around him: a branch swaying, a ladybug resting on a rose bush, the
groundskeeper stooping over his work. Now, the sun had settled lower in the sky, and Whitmore knew he must get home for supper or his mother and Cassie would be upset with him. He hated to have Cassie cross with him, and his mother, well, he would do anything to keep her from disappointment or pain if it was at all possible.

  He packed his things in his art bag and slung it over his shoulder as he walked out of the cemetery and down the street toward home. He took the long way so that he could stop at the candy shop, which smelled of cooked sugar. The owner—an older gentleman with a handlebar moustache wrapped into circles like cinnamon rolls, which gave him a comical expression no matter his mood—greeted him with a wave of his hand. Without asking Whitmore what he wanted, he reached into the case and pulled out the largest of the caramels.

  Whit paid and said a hearty thank you before heading back out, sticking the caramel into his bag between his charcoals and drawing pad, hoping it wouldn’t melt given the warmth of the evening. When he returned home, he entered the back gate and made his way across the garden to the one-room cottage Jeselle and Cassie shared at the back of the Bellmont property. It was necessary to hide the treat under Jeselle’s pillow, otherwise his sister would find it in his bag, then devour it like a greedy cat with a bowl of cream.

  He didn’t bother to knock, knowing Cassie and Jeselle would be in the big house putting the final touches on supper. The cottage was compact but tidy, with both of the twin beds neatly made, the small fireplace clean of ashes, and a basket of knitting waiting near the rocking chair. Jeselle slept on the right side of the room, near one of the small windows. He set the caramel under her pillow, knowing she would look there when she came to bed.

  He entered a silent house through the kitchen door. An empty kitchen? Where were Cassie and Jeselle? The room smelled of beef roasting in the oven; the platter waited empty on the table. He hesitated at the door, listening, and detected his mother’s voice from the upstairs hallway calling out to his father. Often, on a Saturday, his father smoked cigars and drank whiskey with friends in the drawing room while his mother and Cassie talked in the kitchen and his sister sneaked out her bedroom window. Where she went on these Saturday nights he couldn’t imagine, and didn’t want to. But today, apparently, everyone was home. He sighed.

  Whitmore walked up the stairs to look for his mother in her study, stopping in the doorway. Hundreds of books lined shelves covering two walls. Jeselle, standing on a footstool, dusted the top shelf. She wore a thin cotton dress, her braids skimming the collar. Petite, unlike her tall, strong mother, she appeared even smaller next to the masses of books.

  “I’ve returned,” he said to her back.

  “And what’s it matter to me?” She twisted to look at him, holding onto the shelf with one hand, and shook the dust rag at him as if he were a pest with the other. Smiling, dimples appeared on each side of her mouth. All his life he’d wanted to put his fingers inside them. “Did you bring me a sweet?”

  He rubbed his forehead as if he’d forgotten. This was their game. “Darned if it didn’t slip my mind.”

  She laughed and turned back to her work. Open windows brought the scent of honeysuckle. White curtains fluttered in the breeze made by a ceiling fan. This room held all the best memories of his life, he thought. Unless his father was home, his mother taught them here, and the room on those days practically pulsated with the energy of their secret learning. That his mother taught Jeselle right alongside him must be kept a secret, always. After she presented their lessons, they studied at the small round table near the window that looked out into the yard while his mother wrote letters at her desk, delicate head bent over the page.

  A door slammed from down the hall. Jeselle jumped and turned to look at him. They both froze, eyes locked, listening. He knew it was his parents’ door, not Frances having a tantrum. Her door had a tinnier sound than their parents’ heavy oak door.

  The slamming door always came first, as if his father thought it would keep them all from knowing what was about to happen inside. His father shouted, something incomprehensible except in its tone. Then came a thud. Whitmore’s chest tightened. The walls seemed suddenly close. The dust from Jeselle’s rag, unnoticed until now, floated through the warm, dense air and seemed to reach him. He gulped the air, feeling as if he might choke. Sure enough, a dry and raspy cough that always accompanied the twitch on the side of one eye began. Tears came to his eyes as he hunched over, trying to catch his breath.

  Jeselle, beside him now, touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, Whit. She’ll get through it. She always does.” At the sound of her voice, his coughing stopped. She handed him a glass of water. How had she gotten down from the stool, crossed the room, and poured water from the pitcher without him knowing? She was like a deer. “Drink this.”

  Whitmore took a sip of the lukewarm water. Then, rage roared through him like the rush of a stormy sea. How he hated him. Whit slammed the glass on the desk, hard, pretending it was his father’s fat face—red, bloated, with ugly veins on his bulbous nose. He knew from an old photograph that Frank Bellmont had once been handsome, but drink and gluttony had changed all that. The glass broke. Water puddled on the surface of the desk and then spread until it reached a letter his mother had written but not yet signed—an invitation for dinner to someone named Nathaniel Fye. Water smeared the ink where this Nathaniel’s address was written in his mother’s loopy handwriting, making the shape of an asymmetrical star cut in half. He gripped the side of the desk with both hands, watching the spilled water drip onto the floor. “Jessie. I can’t. This. I can’t stand it.” His voice cracked.

  “Whit.”

  But he did not stop to listen. He strode toward the door, not knowing what he would do but just that he must somehow take her place. It was time. He was large enough to take his father’s beating, the one intended for his fragile mother.

  Just a few feet from the bedroom door, he heard his mother cry out. He halted. What should he do? Burst through the door? He imagined coming between his mother and father, taking the fists with his own body. Courage, he thought. You must have courage. But just then Jeselle reached him and grabbed his hand, forcing him to stop and look at her.

  She pushed him against the wall, splaying her hands on his chest and whispering, “Please, Whit, no. There’s nothing you can do.”

  A series of crashes came next: breaking glass, a loud boom, and then splintering wood, and finally, a thud like a body thrown against the wall. Mother cried out, like a scared, hurt animal. “Please, Frank, stop. Please.”

  “Have you learned your lesson?” shouted his father.

  “Yes, Frank. I’m sorry.”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  Whit wept without sound, looking down at the floor, his chest heaving with the effort to keep quiet as they listened to the click of his mother’s shoes on the hardwood floor. The door opened just wide enough for her to slip out. She shut it gingerly and then jumped at the sight of them. The normally upswept bun at the back of her neck hung loose around her shoulders and made her face seem wan and young. Red welts were scattered on her neck and chest. But it was her eyes, flat, like those in a photograph of a dead person Whitmore had recently seen in a magazine, that hurt him the most.

  Mother put her finger to her lips and motioned for them to follow. She moved slowly, walking on the balls of her feet and feeling the back of her head with her fingertips. In the kitchen, she went to the door and opened it, as if she might go out into the garden but then looked back, shaking like she’d come in from the cold in the dead of winter. Jeselle took her arm, leading her to one of the kitchen chairs. “Mrs. Bellmont, sit.”

  “Mother, are you terribly hurt?” Whit knelt at her side.

  Mrs. Bellmont touched the back of her head again gingerly. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll get you some ice.” Whit’s voice wobbled.

  As he rose to his feet, Cassie bustled through the door, carrying several packages. She came to an abrupt halt when she saw Mo
ther. “Oh, no, Miz Bellmont,” she muttered under her breath as she set the packages on the table. She knelt in the same spot Whit had just vacated. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s just a bump on the back of my head. He stayed away from my face,” said Mother. “There’s the Winslow party tomorrow night, you know.”

  Cassie felt the bump with her capable fingers. “What set him off?”

  “I took him the wrong drink.”

  Cassie turned to Jeselle. “Baby girl, fetch me Miz Bellmont’s hairbrush and my sewing kit. Then fix some tea.”

  Mother reached for Cassie’s hand. “Don’t fuss over me, Cassie. I’m fine. I know the children are probably hungry.”

  Cassie’s gaze turned to the red marks on Mother’s chest. “Those’ll bruise.”

  “I have the green dress with the high collar. I’ll wear that to the Winslows’.”

  Cassie nodded, smoothing loose tendrils of hair back from Mother’s face. “I’ll make an ointment for you to rub on them.”

  Mother’s eyes filled with tears before she brought her hands to her face. “I’m so tired. So very tired.”

  Whitmore went to the window. The setting sun had turned the sky red.

  Chapter 5

  Nathaniel

  * * *

  During his time away, when not practicing or performing, Nathaniel thought of Frances. He sent several letters but heard no replies. She wouldn’t know where to send them, he reassured himself, what with a new city every week. The day before they left California he mailed her a postcard of the beach to let her know he would return to New York in a week’s time. He would call her when he got back. He hoped she still wanted him to.