COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

  Heddi’s mother was such a product of such an upbringing. Oh, she was beautiful! Elegant! Always so coolly remote in her beige cashmere crewnecks and pearls, her designer slacks and skirts and jackets. She always looked like she’d just stepped out of a beautician’s chair, a designer’s boutique, or a glass box where she was kept against any disturbing influences upon her perfect blonde page-boy or her spotless white linen.

  And Heddi’s father was her perfect match, taller than she by a good foot, two years older, wealthy, tanned, handsome and charming. His ebullience was the perfect compliment to her composure. They were the social catch, the couple to have at any party, wedding or funeral, and Heddi was their sole, perfect child. They were considered to be the first family, nonpareil, of their town.

  That was the operative myth that Heddi grew up with: they were perfect, beyond reproach. And more than that, they were ultimately desirable, enviable and the subject of endless inept emulations.

  “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” her mother used to say when Heddi complained that some town girl had run out and bought a pair of red shoes or a pink belt or a green sweater just like hers. It went without saying that such behavior was gauche and pathetic.

  She guesses she was about six when she first became aware of the night terrors, although it’s more than likely that they had begun long before that. In dreams, bad men menaced her. She would flee in terror through dark ruined hallways with tattered wallpaper hanging in shredded curtains, and black, gaping doorways giving onto empty, echoing rooms. Alone and in terror, she would run and run while the bad men pursued her, gaining on her, reaching for her...and then she would wake up, screaming.

  Night after night, her nanny – a huge-bosomed black woman named Matilda – would come hustling in her terry cloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers, and hold her to her giant breast, rocking and crooning, until Heddi could sleep again.

  Once, her mother took her to a psychiatrist, who recommended tranquilizers. Her mother hustled them out in an elegant huff. The women of their family did not need tranquilizers, even if – or especially if – they were not yet women.

  After that, the onus fell on Heddi. She was being naughty. She was failing her elite upbringing – to be out of control emotionally was simply déclassé.

  Heddi has a filmy recollection of those early years. In the evening, she would have her supper in the nursery, be bathed, dressed in her nightie and put to bed. Then, magically, the door would fly open and Mother, looking like a fairytale princess, would swoop in. Maybe she would be in a slim black dinner dress, or a pink lace sheath by Bal-main. Best was when she was on her way to a fancy ball and she would appear in floor-length silk taffeta or chiffon, with glittering jeweled necklaces and her beautiful hair swept up to show off her long, white neck.

  God! She was a vision!

  Like a dog who knows by the shoes you put on whether he’s going to get a walk or not, Heddi came to know by her clothing what her mother was scheduled to do: dinner in, dinner out, cocktail party, civic event, afternoon or evening wedding, or charity ball. And Heddi, as devoted, hopeful and forlorn as any dog, took her mother’s meager offerings from her jeweled fingers as if they were tidbits of sirloin.

  Her mother would bend and kiss her and call her her Little Angel and then, with a silken rustle like the sudden start of birds’ wings, she would depart as quickly as she had come, leaving the room vibrating with her beauty and sighing with her French perfume.

  Matilda would stick her head in and say, “Now, you lucky Little Angel, you go to sleep now, you hear?” And she would turn out the light. Heddi would snuggle down in the darkness feeling like the luckiest, most loved little girl in the world.

  And a few hours later, she would erupt from sleep, screaming in terror.

  Sometimes, after her evening bath, instead of a nightie she would be dressed in a pretty dress and Maryjanes and Matilda would use a curling iron to make sausage curls in her fine blonde hair. Then, she would be hustled downstairs to make an appearance.

  In the salon, there would be a crowd of elegant people, sipping from martini glasses and making a subdued murmur. When Heddi arrived, pushed from behind by Matilda’s firm hand, the murmur would suddenly stop. All eyes would turn toward her. Either Mother or Father, whoever was closest, would take her by the elbow and say, “Say ‘good evening’ to the nice people, Heddi,” and Heddi would curtsey to no one in particular and everyone in general and say, “Good evening.”

  Then, she would be led to certain strategic figures in the crowd by whom she was duly greeted and whom she greeted in return, always with a curtsey. Men would hold her hand just a bit too long and make vague sexual innuendos about what would happen to her when she was “of age,” and women would coo over her, saying, “My! Aren’t you the prettiest thing!”

  Then, she was allowed to take a canapé or a bonbon from one of the trays and was ushered to the door where she was expected to curtsey once again and say, “Good night.” Her mother or father would kiss her once on the cheek and she was handed back through the portal into Matilda’s waiting hands.

  This was the regular order of business until, one night when she was eleven, her mother killed herself.

  Or at least, that is what Heddi later came to understand. The official cause of death was listed as an automobile accident, but Little Miss Big Ears, frantic to know what was going on, loitered outside the kitchen just beyond the all-seeing eyes of the servants and there she heard words like hooch, dead drunk and suicide.

  In tones barely audible even at close range, she heard a whispered tale of tremendous speed and her mind provided the details: her mother, clutching the steering wheel of her silver Mercedes convertible in strangler’s hands – but clad in suede driving gloves, nonetheless – her eyes staring the glazed stare of the possessed, as she tore down the road at blurring speed.

  On a straight stretch where no one, not even a dead drunk, would lose control, she inexplicably cranked the wheel and rolled herself over and over into a creek bed where she came to rest, upside down. Her lovely head hung from the shattered side window, her neck broken, her long blonde hair floating in the shallows of the creek.

  Blood alcohol level was whispered and a number given, and tsk tsking issued from various lips. The Sheriff’s name, the time of night, the existence of a note, and the condition of the car – these were gobbets of information Heddi’s young brain could not presently register but stored away to be remembered years later in an analytic office in Zurich.

  After her mother’s death, she was sent off to Miss Pryor’s School for Girls as a boarder rather than a day student. She rarely saw her father, except on major holidays and then only as he slipped off to other events. She grew up and went to college, taking the strange notion that she wanted to be a doctor, and studied pre-med. Her father was too otherwise occupied to object.

  Heddi was about to graduate when she met – or remet – Marcus Wilbur. The Wilburs were a good family and had been close friends with hers before her mother’s death. Heddi and Marcus had never been friends – who had friends, really, under such circumstances? – but they had had a mildly conspiratorial acquaintance that allowed for forbidden adventures like tree climbing or creek wading and tadpole catching.

  When they met again at a luncheon at the country club, they were both twenty and on the verge of graduating. They must have recognized immediately that they, born into the same class and educated in the same ways, were destined for one another. Things transpired quickly, and soon Marcus came to the house to ask her father for her hand in marriage.

  Into the library they both went, with Heddi anxiously waiting in the salon. A faint wave of cigar smoke wafted through, as Heddi arranged the pleats of her linen skirt with nervous fingers. A long silence followed.

  Then, suddenly, the door of the library burst open. Marcus charged through as if he’d been shot from a cannon. Heddi thought he was headed straight toward her, to sweep her up, kiss her and claim her for his own
. Instead, he raced blindly past her and, not waiting for the butler, threw open the front door and was gone.

  Heddi stood thunderstruck in the entry hall, her mouth hanging open just like the front door, as if to call him back with words that would not come.

  Slowly, she turned to see her father standing in the doorway of the library, glaring at her. “You are forbidden to see that boy again,” he said coldly. Then, he turned his back and closed the library door.

  Heddi was too numb to cry. The shock simply stunned her.

  Everything was so right. Marcus had studied diplomacy and had his first posting already promised in South Africa. His father had bought him a house in Durban with a sweeping view of the coast and large formal gardens. She and Marcus had fantasized big game hunting on the veldt and explorations into the mysterious Congo. They even had the name of their first child picked out: Francesca Duchesse, if it were a girl, Marcus Aurelius, Junior, if it were a boy.

  How could this be happening?

  One time only she dared to ask her father for an explanation, and he became so enraged that she retreated in terror, while the servants scurried around her, eyes downcast, as if she were a leper. She tried to call Marcus’s home several times, only to be told by the butler that Mr. Wilbur was not presently available.

  Finally, in desperation, she got into her car one day and drove into the south part of town below the railroad tracks. This was the black section and she, a well-heeled blonde girl in a powder blue Mercedes convertible, aroused more than passing interest.

  At a stop sign, a man lounging against the side of a building shouted, “Girl, you better git yousef home rat now. You don’ have no idea what you doin.”

  Instead of heeding his advice, Heddi shouted back, “I’m looking for Matilda Johnson’s house. Do you know where it is?”

  He ambled out from the shade and leaned on the passenger door of her car. A bolt of fear went though her and she thought he was about to climb in and abduct her. Instead, he pointed languidly down the street.

  “You go down ta the second cross street an take a lef. Den you go down two streets ta Vine Street an take a rat. The third house on the rat is Matilda’s.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said primly and gunned the car.

  “You be careful, you hear?” he shouted after her.

  Matilda hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. Her hair was a little whiter than gray, her girth somewhat increased, her breasts heavier and lower. She walked a little stiffly, as if something had frozen up in her hips. Other than that, she was as gruff and kindly as ever.

  Heddi explained her mission.

  “I think I even wept. I know I did because I remember her clasping me to her huge bosom just like when I was five, and rocking me. I can remember her smell to this day – a combination of bacon, onions, something spicy like cinnamon and an exotic, musky aroma that must have exuded straight from her own pores. It was a scent from my childhood and it calmed me down.

  “What I didn’t expect was Matilda’s reticence...”

  “Marcus Wilbur? That’s who you been seein?”

  “Yes, Matilda. And I love him so much! I want to marry him!”

  Matilda was silent in a way that made Heddi uncomfortable. She seemed to be rummaging deep within herself. Finally, she said, “And you Daddy don’ want you ta marry him?”

  “No, Matilda. Like I told you. He ran Marcus off. And now Marcus won’t even answer my phone calls.”

  Again there was a deep, ruminating silence. Finally, Matilda sighed and said, “Well, Baby, I think you better listen ta you Daddy. He’s got you best interest in his heart.”

  “Oh Matilda, no! Not you, too!” Heddi moaned.

  “Baby,” she sighed, “they is some things is best lef alone. You know what I mean?”

  “No, Matilda. I do not.”

  Matilda hoisted herself up from her armchair and, turning her back on Heddi, began plucking yellowed leaves from the African violets on her windowsill. She seemed to be lost in thought and Heddi knew this mood in her and didn’t dare interrupt it. If she did, Matilda would automatically take the opposite view from hers. If she let her come to her own conclusions, however, she invariably softened, relented, and supported Heddi however she could.

  Heddi glanced around the shabby room. An antique Regulator clock in a chapped brown case ticked lazily. The couch and mismatched chair, both in faded floral upholstery, sagged contentedly. The walls were painted a soft shade of rose, dappled with the slowly fanning shadows of trees. The air was warm, humid and soft, as if they were sunk in a forest glade somewhere in the farthest reaches of Africa – one of those glades she’d hoped to explore with Marcus.

  She thought, So this is the best she can afford, after all those years of taking care of a little rich girl? And she was ashamed.

  Finally, Matilda sat herself down in her armchair and asked, “How old is you now? Seventeen?”

  “Matilda! I’m twenty!”

  “Twenty? My! How time flies.”

  “I’m going to graduate from college in two more semesters.”

  “My! Imagine!”

  Again, the silence lengthened, wrapping itself around the tranquil room.

  “Baby,” she began at last, “I don’ know I outta be the one who tells you this. Or if anyone outta be the one ta tell you. But you done asked an I done thought about it an I think you’s old enough ta know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Why, exactly what you asked...why you ain’t bein’ allowed ta marry Mr. Marcus.”

  “Well...why?” Heddi’s heart began to race. She knew she was on the verge of a life-altering revelation.

  “Well, Baby, because...because...” Matilda sighed deeply, as if releasing the last of her inhibitions, “because Marcus Wilbur is you half-brother.”

  “My...my...what?”

  “I know. I know. It ain’t easy ta understand. But it’s true. Mr. Marcus is you half-brother.”

  “How?”

  “Because you Daddy had an affair with Miz Wilbur, that’s how.”

  “How do you know this?”

  For the first time, Matilda laughed, a hearty contralto that cleared Heddi’s mind to hear it.

  “Oh, Honey Child! What don’ the help in white folks’ houses know? They ain’t a thing goes on that somebody don’ hear or see an report ta everone else. That’s what kitchen’s is for, don’ you know? I bet you thought they was for cookin! But they is mills, Honey Child. Gossip mills, pure an simple. Cookin is always second ta gossip in the white folks’ kitchens. That’s the Law.”

  “Well...!”

  Marcus was her half-brother. Matilda had said it and that meant it was the truth.

  Heddi went back to college, to her sorority house, and spent two miserable semesters finishing up.

  She confided in her best friend, a sorority sister, about what had happened. “I made love with him, Jenny! My God!”

  Jenny just laughed. “I practiced sex with my older bother from the time I was twelve. It’s a safe way to learn about it,” she said with a toss of her head. “Incest is best, Heddi!” she crowed. “Don’t sweat it.”

  Her father came for graduation, bringing a diamond bracelet as a present. He kissed her on the cheek, said he was proud of her, took her dutifully to dinner and departed. He left a three thousand dollar check on the dresser, “for expenses.”

  Let me know when you need more, his note read. I expect you’ll be wanting your own apartment now.

  And that was that. Heddi entered medical school and did well. She was in her psychiatric residency when she got the call that her father had had a heart attack and died.

  Going home to that house was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. It was so huge and silent there at the end of the drive. The servants had been laid off by her father’s lawyer and for the first time in her life, she unlocked the big front door with the key he’d given her. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she now owned the place. She felt like a trespass
er and realized that she had never felt welcome there – and nothing about that had changed.

  Her father had died in his bedroom and, for some macabre reason, Heddi needed to go up there. Maybe she hoped to see him still lying there, so she could believe he was really gone.

  But the room was in perfect order. Tillie, the upstairs maid, would have seen to that before she departed.

  Heddi opened his closet. There were his suits hanging neatly spaced, his starched shirts, his sport coats and top-coats. There were neat stacks of cashmere golf sweaters in gorgeous, muted colors and clear plastic boxes holding various hats.

  In the drawers of his dresser were neat rows of folded socks, ironed handkerchiefs, rolled belts. There were underwear, tee shirts, pajamas, and silk long johns for skiing. In the narrow top drawer were his watches, tie tacks, cuff links and pins from fraternal organizations. And at the very back, a small black book.

  Heddi pulled it out and flipped it open at random. It had blank pages that her father had ruled by hand into separate entries.

  Alice G. was the first entry she read, in her father’s tiny, neat hand. Carleton Hotel, Savannah. April 2nd, 2:00 PM.

  The next entry read, Miriam. 4:30 Wednesday. Prada Towers, Rm. 345.

  The next, Wilma Herrington. 3:30, Tues., April 10. She will call with arrangements.

  And so it went. In the back was an address book, containing the names, addresses and telephone numbers of over three hundred women, some of whom Heddi knew. Some were the wives of her father’s friends, some the mothers of her friends and some were her mother’s friends. Some were his secretaries, or waitresses and shop girls in town. Some were complete strangers.