Heaven and Hell: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Standing near the statue with Jane, tired from a second day of touring the halls and foreign cottages, Madeline suddenly felt someone’s eyes on her. She looked up and saw it was George.

  Little Alfred Hazard from California had fallen asleep in George’s arm. With disarming friendliness, George gazed at Madeline over his nephew’s head. There was nothing improper in his glance, and in a moment he shifted his attention to the sky. A great silvery flower of light bloomed there.

  Madeline’s throat was curiously dry, however. George had been looking at her differently. She was guilty, pleased, flustered, and a little frightened.

  The Carolina Club occupied a large lot in undeveloped land beyond the northern limits of the city. The Chicago fire had not reached that far, but neither had the suburbs as yet. Still, there was always a lot of horse and vehicle traffic on the otherwise deserted road that ran the past the rambling four-story house. The Carolina Club was the city’s largest and most fashionable brothel.

  The owner called herself Mrs. Brett. On the Fourth of July she awoke at her usual hour, 4:00 P.M. Her black maid was just emptying the last spouted pitcher of gently heated goat’s milk into a zinc tub in the next room. She stretched, bathed in the milk for five minutes, then rubbed herself until she was pink. She had no proof that the milk baths promoted youth. Dr. Cosmopoulos, her very prosperous customer who was a phrenologist, professor of electromagnetism, and merchant of healthful tonics, insisted they did, so the baths had become a habit.

  She put on a Chinese silk robe and breakfasted on a pint of fresh oysters and coffee. To finish, she lit a small cheroot from the lacquered Oriental box. Her button collection no longer fit in the box. She kept the buttons visible in a large clear-glass apothecary’s jar with a heavy stopper. She had over three hundred buttons now.

  She dabbed expensive Algerian perfume on her breasts, her throat, and under her arms. Next, with the maid’s help, she put on a dress of apple-red silk with a huge bustle. She slipped on ornate finger rings with red, green, and white stones, put on a heavy necklace and bracelets of paste diamonds and a huge tiara as well. At half past six she went down from her third-floor suite to relieve the energetic young Scandinavian who came on duty at 10:00 A.M. to regulate the day trade.

  There was already a large crowd of gentlemen mingling with the smartly gowned girls in the four parlors. In addition to the white girls employed in the brothel, there were also a Chinese, three black wenches, and a full-blooded Cherokee Indian who was an accomplished piano player. Princess Lou was at this moment playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” on the upright in the main parlor. It was a Fenway; she still felt a certain illogical loyalty.

  She relieved Knudson, the day man, and was in her office studying his tally of receipts when a customer staggered past the half-opened door. The man lurched back and goggled at her.

  “Ashton?”

  “Good evening, LeGrand,” she said, hiding her surprise. “Come in, won’t you? Close the door.”

  He did; the noise level in the office dropped considerably. Villers gazed at the paintings and marbles decorating the opulent room. With an amazed shake of his head, he lurched to Ashton’s private bar and sloppily poured himself a drink. “Don’t spill on my carpet, it’s imported from Belgium,” she said. “And for your information, my name is Mrs. Brett.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Villers said, sagging into a chair beside the great teak desk. “I’ve never been here before. Two of the Fenway peddlers are in town, so I thought we’d go on a spree. How long have you run this place?”

  Ashton’s face, smoothly and carefully powdered, still showed a slight puffiness. She was forty, and had trouble controlling her weight.

  “Since it opened. That was shortly after I left Will. I wasn’t exactly prepared to support myself. If you’re a proper Southern girl, your education consists of learning to simper and curtsy. At least that was so in my day. Consequently, when you grow up, all you know how to do is be a wife or a whore. In the case of my first husband, who was a spineless no-good, I was the former and felt like the latter. You know, LeGrand, the ladies of Charleston would lynch me for saying this, but lately I’ve begun to think the suffragists aren’t entirely crazy. I’ve given a local group a very large donation two years in a row.” She feigned a demure expression. “Anonymously, of course. I wouldn’t want to compromise my reputation.”

  He laughed. “How’d you get started here?”

  “With the help of a patron.”

  “Yes, you’d have no trouble finding a platoon of patrons. You’re as handsome as ever.”

  “Thank you, LeGrand. How’s Will?”

  “Making millions, the old son of a bitch. The judges in Philadelphia gave our Ashton model one of their bronze medals. Isn’t that something? Now tell me, what happened when you left? One day you’re back from Carolina, and the next—whiz. Gone.”

  “Will and I had a major disagreement.” No sense telling him more. No sense in revealing that she’d had the bad luck to be away from Château Villard the day the mail brought Favor Herrington’s last bill. Will was at home, recovering from summer influenza. He opened the letter from the unfamiliar law firm and then wanted to know why she had hired an attorney when, according to what she’d told him, all she’d done in South Carolina was visit. She evaded, lied, resisted as long as she could, but he was a stubborn old devil, and success had only strengthened him. When she screamed that she’d roast in hell before she told him anything, he shrugged and said he’d telegraph Favor Herrington and demand an explanation. He would exercise his marital rights and insist that Herrington could not claim confidentiality because Ashton was spending his money. Terrified, Ashton confessed to pledging an enormous sum for Mont Royal by means of a letter of credit on their bank.

  She tried to put the best possible face on what she’d done, but she knew she was failing when she saw loathing narrow his eyes and twist his normally relaxed mouth. When it was all out, when she’d admitted she’d almost taken Mont Royal away from her own family, he reminded her of his warning after she murdered the señora’s brother-in-law in Santa Fe.

  “I said I’d never tolerate meanness like that again. I love you, Ashton, old fool that I am. But I’ll be cursed if I’ll live with someone so low. I want you packed and out of here by noon tomorrow.”

  Villers said, “A disagreement, you say. You divorced him, did you?”

  Ashton shook her head. She hated the feeling of sentimental longing this conversation was generating. It was a feeling all too familiar. “It’s possible he divorced me, though. I don’t know.”

  “He hasn’t that I know of,” Villers said. “Does he know where you are?”

  “No, but I don’t expect he cares. I’m perfectly happy,” she lied. “If a woman has her health and her beauty and some regular income, what more does she need?” Why had Will been so damned upright? Often, in the middle of the night she desperately missed cozying up to his skinny old body under a thick comforter.

  Her dark eyes widened in her powder-white face. Villers was studying her in a way she didn’t like. “What is it, LeGrand?”

  “Just thinking. I appreciate that you and Will must have had a good reason for the split-up. But he was your husband. Maybe he still is. He’s going to be mighty sorry to hear what’s become of you.”

  Her heartbeat quickened. “You wouldn’t be a snake and tell him about me.”

  “You care about the old bastard’s feelings?”

  “Why, no, I—I just want to preserve my privacy.”

  “I’ll preserve it.” Villers eyed her. “In exchange for a little taste of the old times.”

  Ashton’s fine bust lifted like a ship’s prow heaving from the water. All outraged gentility, she said, “I own the Carolina Club. I am not one of the workers.”

  He unfolded himself from the chair. “All right, then I can’t promise to hold my tongue.”

  She seized his hand and rubbed the palm with her thumb. “Of course I can always change
my policy for an evening.”

  Villers licked his lips. “No charge?”

  She wanted to hit him. She wanted to weep. She smiled, tossing her head back; her elaborately pinned dark hair shimmered.

  “Why, of course not. Never a charge for a friend.”

  Later, while the notes of Princess Lou’s “Hail, Columbia” drifted upstairs—aside from some patriotic bunting on the portico, it was the club’s sole acknowledgment of Independence Day—LeGrand Villers finished for the third time, not having roused her once.

  As he rolled away, he accidentally touched the soft rounded ridge of fat that kept growing and growing above her mons, no matter how little she ate. The Fenway sales manager wasn’t so rude as to say anything, but she felt his fingers hesitate before he drew them from her stomach.

  Somehow that touch destroyed her. She was a strong woman, and a successful one, but there was nothing left for her except decay, the slow ruin of her beauty, death. And every once in a while she was forced to confront that.

  Soon Villers was snoring. Ashton lay on her side, hands tucked under her chin, knees drawn up to her breasts, wide-eyed and wishing she were a child playing with Brett at Mont Royal once again.

  On Thursday night, twenty-nine members of the Main and Hazard families gathered in the private dining room set aside for them by the hotel. At the open end of the horseshoe table, an easel displayed the architect’s rendering of the white-columned facade of the new Mont Royal plantation house. Madeline described the house, then invited everyone to come visit whenever they could. She sat down to warm applause.

  George rose, proper and polished. The room was quiet except for the rustle of Willa’s skirts; she was holding little Alfred and gently bounding him up and down to soothe his fussiness. He began to drowse, thumb in his mouth.

  George cleared his throat. Charles lit another of the cigars whose smoke hung heavy in the airless room.

  “I am glad we are together on this momentous anniversary. We share so much that is important, though, unfortunately, I cannot include good Republican politics in that statement.”

  Everyone laughed, Champ Nevin as heartily as anyone. A cigarette balanced on the edge of his coffee cup sent off smoke in an ascending corkscrew. Two places away, Stanley coughed into his napkin, making a show of it and shooting looks at Patricia’s husband. Earlier, Stanley and the young newsman had had a row over Grant’s 1869 treaty of annexation of Santo Domingo, which the President’s emissaries had negotiated without the knowledge or consent of Congress or the cabinet. The Senate had killed the treaty, and the whole affair had started the defection of important Republicans such as George from the regular wing to a new reform wing of the party. Champ Nevin had nearly given Stanley a seizure when he called Grant’s behavior, “criminal.”

  George continued: “I was trying to organize some appropriate remarks when I thought of the city of Philadelphia’s Independence Day poster. Have you seen it?” Several of them nodded. “Allow me to quote from it.” He consulted a note, reading the words about 1776 and 1876. He dropped the note beside his water glass.

  “That is an expert summation of our country, and our own lives. Since the Mains and the Hazards were first drawn together by a friendship forged at the Military Academy, we have all changed, and so has the nation. We will never again be as we were, be what we were, except in one regard. Our affection, one family for the other, is immutable.”

  Never again as we were, Madeline thought. How right he is. Constance was gone. Cooper had not been invited, though everyone keenly regretted Judith’s absence. Ashton was presumably in Chicago with her millionaire husband—no loss. Charles and Billy, whose lives had diverged on such different courses, showed no clear signs of awkwardness with one another, despite their strong ties from West Point and the war period.

  Over there, bored and blank, Stanley sat beside his churlish son, no doubt puzzling as to why either of them had agreed to attend George’s reunion.

  And, most important, her dear Orry was gone…

  “That affection has carried us through a time of national crisis and testing,” George said. “Through dark days of warfare and political strife, the bond has grown thin but it has never broken. It remains strong to this day.

  “My mother believed the mountain laurel has a special strength that enables it to withstand the ravages of the seasons. She said only love and family could generate a similar strength in human beings, and I believe it’s true. You are the proof. We have grown from two families into one, and we have survived. That strength and closeness, born of friendship and love, is one of Orry Main’s great gifts to us, and the reason he is very much with us tonight. I loved my friend Orry, and I love every one of you. Thank you for coming to Philadelphia to reaffirm—to—”

  He cleared his throat again, bowed his head. He quickly rubbed a finger in his right eye.

  “Thank you,” he said in the silence. “Goodnight.”

  Charles and Willa were the first to leave the dining room. Charles noticed a peculiar hush in the lobby. Guests conversed in whispers, or stood reading newspapers. He patted Gus’s shoulder and strode to the desk.

  The clerk put down his copy of the Inquirer. “What’s wrong?” Charles asked.

  Pale, the clerk, said, “General Custer is massacred. And all his men with him.”

  ________________

  GREAT INDIAN BATTLE.

  SANGUINARY FIGHTING IN THE

  WEST.

  __________

  THE GROUND PILED WITH BODIES.

  Over Three Hundred Killed.

  __________

  THE INDIAN MASSACRE.

  Confirmation of the Sad News.

  A General Indian War Expected.

  __________

  LIST OF THE KILLED AND MISSING.

  __________

  GEN. CUSTER HEADS THE ROLL.

  His Brother Slain by His Side.

  __________

  THE INDIAN WAR.

  How Are the Mighty Fallen.

  First Rumors All Too True.

  __________

  FORTY-EIGHT HOURS’ FIGHTING.

  Rescue Arrives at Last.

  Cause of the Catastrophe.

  __________

  CUSTER UNACCOUNTABLY PRECIPITATE.

  Philadelphia Inquirer

  July 6-7-8, 1876

  ________________

  The moon washed the roofs of Philadelphia and the face of the man at the hotel window. He wore his trousers and nothing else. It was half past one. He couldn’t sleep. Because of that, neither could Willa. He heard her shifting in the bed behind him.

  Musing, he said, “I’m glad Magee’s coming down to the ranch to visit when he gets leave. I want to know what he thinks of the massacre.”

  “It’s upset you, hasn’t it?”

  Charles nodded.

  “What do you think about it?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to decide without all the facts. The dispatches are still pretty muddled. No two agree. I’m sorry for the men who served under Custer, and for his wife, but God help me, I don’t feel sadness for him. I don’t know, Willa, it’s like—like watching a wheel come full circle. A lot of men said Custer took us to the Washita because his reputation had suffered as a result of his discipline and he wanted public favor again. He needed a victory. He got one, but it was dirty. He never quite canceled out the Washita, and this time it sounds like he was after another victory in hopes of doing it. There’s some indication that he disobeyed orders and rushed in where he shouldn’t.”

  He let out a long breath. “I keep thinking he was hunting the presidency, not the Sioux. I wish I could say I liked the poor son of a bitch now he’s dead.”

  She heard the confusion in his voice, the echo of bad memories. He saw her outstretched hands glimmer in the light. “I love you, Charles Main. Come here, let me hold you.”

  He was halfway to the bed when Gus screamed.

  Wildly, he crashed the bedroom door back, lunged across the parlor an
d into the smaller bedroom. Gus was fighting the sheet, rolling to and fro, crying, “Don’t do that, don’t do that.”

  “Gus, it’s Pa. You’re all right. You’re all right!” He gathered the boy in his arms and pressed him close. He stroked his hair. It was damp from sweat.

  Presently Charles sat back, and Gus stared at him with a bewildered air. The scar looked black in the moonlight. Charles silently cursed all the Bents and Custers of the world.

  Gus’s huge, terrified eyes focused. “Pa.”

  Charles’s shoulders sagged. The tension left him. “Yes,” he said.

  Virgilia’s was the only white face in the small, plain restaurant. She and Scipio and Jane had come there for a farewell breakfast. Eggs, fried fish, corn bread—all deliriously hot. The other tables held some people who evidently came from the neighborhood, and there was one waiter, the cook’s son.

  “I’m very glad we had this chance to meet,” Virgilia said as she finished.

  Jane said, “I am too. I wish my husband could have seen the exhibition.” There was no self-pity in the statement, merely a solemn declaration.

  “I don’t know as I’d wish that,” Scipio said.

  “Why not?” Virgilia asked.

  “I’m not so sure we have much to celebrate.” He folded his supple hands together and rested them on the old tablecloth. “The war ended eleven years ago. That isn’t a long time, but sometimes I think everything the war accomplished is already gone. Yesterday I saw some signs in a building downtown. Two signs, on different doors. White only. Colored only.”

  Jane sighed. “We don’t have signs like that in South Carolina yet, but we might as well. The Klan keeps screaming ‘nigger, nigger,’ the white people protest the school taxes, we can’t ride the public transportation again, the Hampton Red Shirts are out, the Democrats will win this fall, the last soldiers will leave—the war isn’t won at all. You’re right. Everything did look bright a few years ago, and now it’s almost wiped away. I think we’re sinking right back to 1860.”