by John Jakes
“Oh, we’ll have that fixed in a minute, Lottie—”
She giggled, widening the spread of her legs to allow him a freer access. He ran one palm down the slope of her breast, aware of the premature sag of her flesh. Very quickly he tired of the fondling. He dropped over her and began to work.
Somehow, rolling and clutching at one another, they moved a short distance from the dead trunk of the apple tree. All at once, braced above her on his hands, Judson realized where they were. He wrenched away, sickened—
On coming home to Caroline County, he’d learned that Tom Shaw had been killed one night riding patrol. A fox had spooked his horse. He’d tumbled off the runaway, breaking his neck. Lottie couldn’t afford to bury him anywhere but on his own property.
Now, seeing Judson’s stark eyes blazing in the moon, Lottie giggled again. She reached between his legs:
“Come on, darlin’, you don’t believe all those church stories about souls flyin’ around once the body’s planted. The old fool don’t know we’re doin’ it right on top of him—”
His face almost demented-looking, Judson stared at the crude wood cross just beyond Lottie’s tangled hair. Lottie jerked her hand back:
“Listen, Judson Fletcher! You got me all worked up. You got to finish what you—”
He slammed at her cheek with the back of his right hand. Her head snapped over. She yelled, a low, hurt sound. He jumped up, ran from the grave to the far side of the dead apple tree, leaned his forearm on the rotting trunk, and his forehead on his arm.
Behind him, Lottie was panting, half frightened, half furious:
“You’re turnin’ into a crazy man. A crazy man!”
In the stillness of the summer dark, he said nothing to deny it. He was sick of her sluttish voice and sluttish ways—because of what they told about him.
His refusal to answer only angered her more:
“You gonna talk to me, or you gonna stand there staring like some stupid, moonstruck—?”
He whirled on her. She’d clambered to her feet, rushed at him, one hand lifted as if she wanted to use her nails on his cheeks; his eyes. When she saw his ugly stare, the hand lowered quickly.
“I’ve had enough of you, Lottie. Leave.”
“Leave? This here’s my property, not yours—”
“You want to be buried on your property, Lottie? That’s the only way you’re going to stay around here—buried beside that poor wretch lying yonder. I’ll give you till dawn to pack up and get out.”
He flung her hand away like some befouled object, snatched up his breeches and hurried toward the road.
He didn’t have a notion of where he’d spend the rest of the night. But he couldn’t stand to spend it with her.
He heard her screaming at him:
“You’ll be sorry you treated me like this, Mr. Judson Fletcher. You’ll be goddamn sorry, I promise you—!”
He walked faster, pausing only long enough to tug on the filthy trousers. Threatening him, was she? Maybe that meant she was going to respond to his own, completely honest threat of physical harm—and get out. It was some small encouragement—
But he had to suffer the sound of her yammering voice for a good quarter mile before distance and the racketing night insects finally stilled it.
ii
Three mornings later, Judson groaned and rolled over on the straw pallet in the cabin. The yellow hound was licking at his arm.
Judson heard rain through the hole in the roof near the fireplace, plip-plop, then another sound—the splash of the hoofs of a horse in puddles in the yard. Before he could stand up and pull on his breeches, the cabin door opened.
Supporting himself on his cane and favoring his bandaged left foot, Donald hobbled in. Outside, standing with two sets of reins in his hand—and getting soaked because that was his function at the moment—Judson recognized the house slave who always accompanied Donald on his trips from Sermon Hill. The young black had charge of Donald’s horse and his own pony. His eyes shone, big and white in the steamy gray of the morning. He was peering toward the cabin, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of its notorious inhabitant.
“Shut the goddamned door,” Judson said, holding his head.
“I will if you put your pants on and try to behave like something halfway human.” Donald pushed the squeaking door closed with his cane.
Climbing into his trousers, Judson let go with a sour-tasting belch. “A little moral remonstrance before I get the monthly dole? Well, you can keep ’em both!”
Donald colored. But he refused to be provoked:
“The Shaw woman’s left you?”
“That’s right, I got a bellyful of her and told her to pack up.”
“Certainly cavalier of you—considering it was her husband who owned this place.”
Judson spat one quick epithet to show what he thought of that sarcastic quibble. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, asked:
“How’d you find out she was gone?”
“Very simple. She’s already selling her fine wares in Richmond. A friend of mine came back from there yesterday. He said Lottie’s informing everyone that you’ve lost your mind.”
That brought a smirk to Judson’s mouth. “Could well be, Donald, could well be. How’s the lord of Sermon Hill taking the news?”
“I’ve been at some pains to keep it from him. That’s not too difficult. He knows you’re back but he doesn’t talk about you.”
“Never?”
There was a hesitation before Donald replied:
“No. Never.”
“Jesus,” Judson said, very softly.
Donald frowned. “Judson, this place is a sty. Since that slattern’s gone, there’s no reason you can’t clean it up.”
“Oh, God, don’t start—”
“Why not? Some time, you’re going to have to put an end to reveling in filth—indolence—”
“Right you are. The moment I find something for which I’m better suited—” Judson yawned again, then shambled toward the crock where he kept the cabin’s supply of mealy corn cakes. Lifting the lid, he found the crock empty. He remembered that he’d fried the last cake for his only meal yesterday.
Donald reached for the inevitable purse whose drawstring hung from his coat pocket. Fingering the string, he asked, “You do know they’re constantly in need of men for the Virginia militia levies—?”
Judson scratched his navel. “The last thing I want to be is a Virginia soldier.”
“Then what the hell do you want to be?—other than a drunken fool bent on slow death? You seem totally dedicated to rebelling against everything ordinary people consider normal or decent or—”
“Get out.”
“No. You’ve got to look at yourself, Judson.”
“Damn,” Judson said with a weary shudder, “what’s provoked you this morning? I’ve never begged you to come here, remember. I’d just as soon you leave.”
Donald bit his lip. “Well—you ask what provoked me—the truth is, I had a most distressing note delivered to me at Sermon Hill last night. It upset me because I don’t know how to reply to it.”
“A note from who?”
“From Seth McLean’s widow.”
Rigid, Judson swallowed. “She’s back home?”
“For nearly a month. With the assistance of Williams, she’s gradually taking over affairs at the plantation. I haven’t seen her. But I’m told her health and composure have been reasonably well restored. Unfortunately she heard some talk about you. Your—” A weary wave of the hand. “Present condition. She asked whether there was anything anyone could do to help.” Donald’s mouth pursed, sour. “You see why I’m in difficult straits regarding a reply? Obviously the answer is no.”
Judson seized his brother’s arm. There was a strange, prickling alertness tearing through the lethargy of sleep and hangover:
“Maybe I’ll answer in person. I haven’t seen Peggy since Seth was killed. I should call on her—”
Donald shook his head sharply.
“I’m not certain that would be wise.” Yet his skepticism seemed a trifle artificial.
“Dammit, listen—I’ll behave myself. I swear I will. Just a brief visit. I owe it to her!”
Still doubtful, Donald said, “There’s no guarantee she’d receive you.”
“I think she would.”
“Well, you certainly couldn’t go in your present state.”
“Are any of my old clothes stored at the Hill?”
“I believe so. In the attic—”
“Get one of the nigras to bring me an outfit. Sneak it out after dark if you have to—” Judson whirled to a wall peg where a scrap of pot-tin served as a bleary mirror. He raked his fingers through his fair beard. “I’ll scrape this off. Clean myself up decently—”
“Only to pay your respects and express your sympathies about Seth.”
The concern in Donald’s voice spun Judson around again. Vaguely fearful and yet excited, he answered:
“Yes, what else did you think? I’ll stay only ten or fifteen minutes. Just long enough to—what the hell are you grinning about?”
“Nothing, nothing. I’ll see what can be done about the clothes—” He gestured to the young black being drenched in the dooryard. “Lemon can be trusted. But we’ll need to take care that the old man doesn’t find out. It may require a day or two—”
“As soon as you can!”
Donald nodded, started out. Then he turned back:
“I hope it isn’t necessary to remind you that she is a widow. Her status demands special courtesy.”
“Stop worrying! I’ll behave! I just want to see her, tell her—dammit, what is it now?”
With surprising gentleness Donald said, “You love her very much, don’t you?”
After a moment Judson said, “I always have. Hopeless. But I can’t help it.”
All at once Donald seemed brisk; almost cheerful: “A visit might hearten her. And perhaps have a salutary effect on you as well.”
Sudden understanding made Judson laugh aloud:
“That’s why you came here today. For my benefit, not hers. Admit it!”
“Yes, you’ve caught me. I thought that if anything could pull you up out of your sorry state, it might be the name of Peggy McLean.”
“Well, you were right. Though I continue to be astonished that you’d concern yourself.”
Donald’s smile faded. “I continue to be astonished myself. I don’t suppose anyone can fully explain how it’s possible to despise and love a brother at the same time. Or why one woman out of all the women in this world has the power to redeem a man.”
Or ruin him, Judson thought as Donald went out into the rain.
The brief flash of despair passed almost instantly. Before Donald and the slave Lemon rode away from the dooryard, Judson was at work in front of the scrap of pot-metal. Teeth clenched, he hacked and chopped at the yellow growth with his hunting knife. In the process he cut himself three times, and scraped his skin nearly raw.
But he couldn’t recollect any discomfort he’d ever enjoyed quite so much.
iii
Reasonably presentable, and mounted on a gray gelding Lemon had smuggled out of the Sermon Hill stables for his temporary use, Judson Fletcher rode up the lane to the McLean plantation the following Tuesday. Twilight etched the western horizon gold below bars of dark gray cloud. The rainy, stifling weather had passed in favor of a cooler spell. That too had a certain restorative effect on Judson’s spirits.
He was infernally nervous, though. His belly was as fluttery as a young man’s at his first plantation ball.
He was still determined to keep his promise to Donald. He would make the call a short one—
Provided Peggy McLean would let him in the house!
He cantered up the drive past lamp-lit windows, listening to the trees rustling in a light breeze. The sound lent a certain enjoyable melancholy to the occasion. As he crossed the veranda, he realized he hadn’t been on this same spot since the night of the uprising. He almost dreaded the opening of the front door, for more than one reason.
He fussed a moment with the lace stock at his throat. He smoothed his ruffled cuffs, rubbed both hands back across his combed temples, checked the knot of the ribbon with which he’d clubbed his hair. Then he raised the knocker.
The shiny black face that appeared a moment later belonged to one of the house girls who’d sent him upstairs the night Peggy was raped. Astonishment, then delight registered in quick succession:
“Why, Mist’ Fletcher! Good evening, sar.”
“Good evening, Melissa. Is—is Mrs. McLean at home?”
“Yes, sar, she be out in the summerhouse.”
“I wonder if I might speak with her?” With effort, he kept his eyes on the girl’s, avoiding the parquet beyond. Even so, his mind saw grisly images of Seth’s butchered body.
“Why, yes, sar, I think she’d be right happy to see you.”
“I understand she’s well and in good spirits?”
“After a long time home with her kin. Mist’ Williams, he took good care of the place while she was away. But we mighty glad to have her back.”
Melissa stepped onto the veranda, pointed toward the corner of the house.
“Why don’t you walk ’round and right on up to the summerhouse, Mist’ Fletcher?”
That was precisely what Judson wanted to do. He wiped his moist palms on his trousers, forced a shake of his head:
“I believe it might be better if you told her who was calling. She might not wish company this evening.”
Puzzled, the black girl said, “All right, sar.” She started away along the veranda.
In the west, beyond the trees where the last light was fading to amber, a flight of swallows sailed gracefully. “I’ll wait right here,” Judson called. Melissa vanished.
He began to pace back and forth. Remember—a brief visit. Brief!
The darkness along the lane seemed to deepen. He kept peering toward the veranda’s end. The black girl didn’t return. His hope started to disintegrate—
“Mist’ Fletcher?”
Surprised, he whirled. The girl had returned through the rear of the house. She stood in the open front door. For a long, dizzy second, Judson hung between wild hope and what he felt was certain refusal.
“Yes?”
A dazzling smile.
“Mrs. McLean, she say she pleased to see you. So you go right on ’round.”
It was all he could do to keep from running.
iv
The McLean summerhouse, a white-painted structure with a cupola and pine louvers to admit the breeze, perched on a knoll at some distance from the main house. As Judson hurried up the lawn, he saw lamps gleaming in the slave cabins at the rear of the property, blacks gathered in groups in the street between. Someone was clicking out a rhythm with beef bones. Someone else chanted a wordless melody. Up at the far end of the cabin street, a portly figure sat in a rocker that moved slowly back and forth to the tempo of the music.
Judson thought he saw the overseer wave, lifted his hand in response. To make such a small, ordinary gesture somehow filled him with a warmth and satisfaction he hadn’t known in a long time.
A lantern glowed inside the summerhouse. But the louvers hid the interior. The closed door intimidated Judson all at once.
Inhaling the fragrance of the freshly cut lawn, he approached, straightened his stock again, knocked softly.
“Come in.”
As he closed the door behind him, Peggy Ashford McLean rose from a wicker chair, putting aside a newspaper. Several more were neatly stacked at the foot of the chair. The sight of Seth’s widow, her creamy skin given warmth and luster by the shaded lantern, almost petrified him.
Peggy wore white silk. The mourning period was over. Her flawlessly done dark hair caught the lantern’s gleam. She was still slim; elegant; heartbreakingly lovely. Only her eyes had changed. They lacked the vivacity he remembered. Well, there was good reason for that—
P
eggy’s cheeks took on more color as she extended her hand. Her skin carried a faint tang of sweet balsam oil.
“Judson, how good to see you!”
“Peggy—” Words came hard. “You’re looking exceptionally well.”
“Thank you.”
“I—I understand you’re taking over the plantation.”
“Yes, I’m finally learning something about it. Not without a good deal of struggle, I must confess. I’m afraid I never concerned myself before—”
She held back the rest of it; he thought he saw the horror of memory stain her eyes for an instant.
“Oh, but please sit down, Judson. It’s terribly rude of me to keep you standing—”
“I can’t stay long. I only wanted to call because I hadn’t seen you since—” Inadvertently trapped, he got out as best he could: “—since Seth’s passing.”
“I remember very little of that night,” Peggy said in a calm voice. She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s turned out to be a blessing.”
“Yes, I can see how—”
Again he faltered. To conceal how ill at ease he was, he took the indicated seat, a wicker lounge. He sat perched on the edge. Peggy picked up the conversation:
“Still, I know very well what you did to help. The debt can never be properly paid.”
Another awkward silence. He suddenly felt he’d made a serious error in coming here. He’d wanted to see her; look at her a moment. But it was too painful. The sweet lines of her figure, the grace of her finely wrought face still had the power to torture him. But reopening the old wounds served no purpose—
Again it was Peggy who broke the silence:
“Would you care for refreshment? There’s port on the table.”
Even though his mouth felt dust-dry, he shook his head. “I don’t believe so, thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I pour a glass. I’ve grown to like a little something this time of evening.”
“All right, I will join you,” he said impulsively, standing and walking over to pour a crystal goblet for each of them. As he handed Peggy’s to her, his hand accidentally touched her fingers. A shock vibrated through him. Damn, he’d better leave. And quickly.