Seeing Sarah’s frown, Fanny said quickly, “We’re on our way home to dinner.” She clasped her hands behind her to show they did not expect to be asked to join them.
“How’s your father?” Sarah asked the girl, and Jane smoothed her hair to make up for lack of hospitality.
“Worse,” Blair said for his sister.
“We’ll stop by on our way home,” Sarah said. “Do you think your mother would mind?”
“No’m, she won’t mind,” Fanny answered promptly.
“What way does he appear worse?” Sarah inquired.
“It’s hard to specify,” Blair said importantly, “but Mama said if he wasn’t better by dinnertime, she was going to have the doctor again; and Dr. Platt was there yesterday too.”
“Well, you’d better run on,” Sarah said. “Tell your mother we may stop for a minute—just for a word at the door, not to bother her with a visit.”
“Yes’m.”
Hungry, the family set to eating, sharing and passing whatever was wanted, the boys behaving well to show their appreciation at being allowed to join the outing. But when Sarah and Jane sat down on old Ben Davis’s clean gravestone to enjoy the last of their wine, Davy began to slurp water from an empty pickle jar, pretending to be drunk. Bruce kicked him in a dignified way, which he ignored. “Jody Rountree has to stay after school today and get a whipping.”
“What did he do?” Jane asked.
“Let loose a turtle during the arithmetic test.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Sarah said.
“No, ma’am, but he’d used chalk to print a bad word on his shell.”
Sarah smiled, whereupon the three boys whooped and hollered with laughter. It was upon this scene that Annabel Saxon made her appearance, opening and closing the wrought-iron gates with a double clang to silence them. “I never saw or heard anything so sacrilegious!” she declared. “Eating on poor old Granny’s grave—laughing as if you were all at the circus.”
“Would you like a pickled peach?” Sarah said, unconcerned. “I’m afraid that’s all that’s left, and it looks a little soft.”
Annabel shook her head. “I would not. Fanny said you were here. I was at Bonard’s when the children came home for dinner.”
“I’m sorry to hear he is less well,” Sarah said.
“It doesn’t appear to have dampened your spirits. The doctor has been and says it must be pneumonia—exactly what carried away Mr. Troy last winter, at just about this time.”
2
Of the various responses to death, surprise is perhaps the commonest, however much the event has been anticipated. Annabel Saxon had little more regard for her younger son than she had for his wife, but surprise and the reiterated declaration of surprise sufficed for the occasions consequent to his demise. Bonard was not yet thirty-seven; nor had he been long or seriously ill, although there were many to remind each other after the fact that he had been unwell for half a year. There was nothing fearsome to warn them like consumption of the lungs or that decline attending a noxious growth; he had only been “poorly,” with chills during the last summer of his life and low but persistent fevers commencing with the cool rains of autumn and wasting him to a January grave. Poor Bonard was puzzled but not frightened to find that he no longer wanted cigars and spirits, only wanted to want them. And then pneumonia, sometimes called the old man’s friend, became the young man’s destroying angel. His death was pronounced a tragedy, but few tears were shed, for Bonard was not someone people needed to cry over. The deaths of others his age were remembered and these challenged by reminiscences of the passing of those even younger, until it seemed that no very remarkable thing had happened.
So long had they been cautioned to tiptoe, Blair and Fanny were more relieved than not when, another noon, they were met at the door by their grandmother and told they were poor orphans and did not have to go to school for the remainder of the week. Although everyone vowed they should not starve, no one actually opened his purse and closed his eyes. James Davis arrived at the house a scant hour after receiving word that death had claimed its head and asserted to the pretty widow that he had lost his second gift of sight. Bonard had been his partner in business and none calling him husband or father need fear hardship while he, James, was able to sell a foot of lumber. “Did he not first develop chills after sleeping a week in the swampy stand we cut below Sharon Hill last August? You may depend upon me, not forgetting that my own mourning, which I have not yet put by, warms my heart further to your grief and need.”
Frankie murmured that he was a good man, a kind uncle. Then voice faltered as hands molded air to say what words evidently could not. Realizing the idleness of gesture with a blind man, she asked in a more collected way what there was for her in the line of definite expectations. James coughed and considered: as to that, the share of the sawmill controlled by Bonard had, in fact, never passed from his father’s hands.
Later the same day Annabel relishingly confirmed that Frankie was poor, explaining that “the Bank” owned the quarter of the mill that had provided her living.
“I did not realize,” Frankie said coldly, “that matters still stood that way.”
Her mother-in-law replied, “And why should you have, as long as allowance was made for your every extravagance?”
Frankie said, “The Bank is only Papa Blair, is it not?”
Annabel qualified the definition: “And those who advise him.” Her wink left no doubt that she herself was her husband’s chief mentor.
“Bonard was promised and surely earned a quarter share in the business. He told me so more than once, and Uncle James has said a hundred times he could not have kept the business up without my husband.”
“Now he will have to, won’t he?” Annabel sighed. “It was thought not best to give it to Bonard outright. My devotion to my sons’ interests—and I think no one will deny me that—did not let me forget certain indications of irresponsibility in my youngest. For an instance: we could not disregard his using sawmill funds which were not his at the time he made his sudden, surprising marriage.”
“You have a long memory. I must speak to Papa Blair.” As soon as she said the words, Frankie knew they were a mistake. Annabel would not forgive the suggestion that her husband represented higher authority.
“Your pretty ways persuaded him to make over this house to you in the early days when we were all relieved that Bonard had not done worse, but we are accustomed to your charms now.” Annabel stamped her right foot. “It’s gone to sleep.”
“Get up and walk on it,” Frankie advised.
“It does me no good.” She stamped the foot again.
“You don’t take any exercise.”
“How can you say so? I am doing something every waking moment. I haven’t time to take the extended rambles you indulge in. One of the servants—it must have been Fox and Millie’s grandboy; he’s an idler but he has a quick eye—observed you coming out of the cotton gin the other day, or was it week? He wondered what you could have found to do there with it closed for the winter. I meant to ask you.” Frankie picked a yellow thread from the black silk velvet of her lap. “Your traipsing around does, I grant, keep you in good figure, though you eat like a plowman. Of course, it will catch up with you. I’ve seen it happen with others. You’ll get fat as Margaret-Ella one day. She hadn’t seen her feet for five years when they buried her. I always told her she was digging her grave with her teeth.”
“She had a weak heart.”
“They’ll say what they think sounds best. As to the funeral. When I heard, I sent to the bank for both Mr. Saxons to attend me. I’ve discussed it with them, and they feel as I do—” She broke off, rising from her chair. “Do you suppose they’ve finished dressing him? They never think to tell you until they want praise and pay. Which cravat did you give them to use?” She left the dining room where they had been sitting and crossed the hallway to the bedroom, returning a few minutes later. “That blue one won’t do at all.
There was a spot on it that looked like dried egg yolk somebody had tried to scratch off. I picked a black one, more suitable anyway. They’re changing it. Both Blair One and Blair Two agree with me that the funeral must be at three o’clock day after tomorrow. A morning funeral looks as eager as a Yankee peddler.”
Frankie shrugged.
“I’ll let Quarterman know and tell Doreen which hymns she and Eloise are to get up on. No need for you to do so. It doesn’t look well for the widow to interfere in arrangements; it’s as if no one cares for her. You musn’t go outdoors at all until after the funeral or show yourself at a window. No more of your walks, mind. I’ll see to everything.”
Frankie nodded her head. “It’s good of you.”
“What’s a mother for? And don’t worry overmuch about the future. I shall help you however I can, seeing how dependent upon us you must now be.” She looked about the long, oval room, frowning at the rich curtains and polished wood and silver candelabra. “It will be best to dispose of this house, for you’ll have nothing incoming to keep it up. When you sell, the bank will use the proceeds to pay your and Bonard’s debts. There are always debts after a death, no matter how well things have been managed. We’ll hope there is some small substance remaining to set by for your son’s future career. You’re to move in with Mr. Saxon and me until we all decide what is best for the future. If you care to make a long visit with your family in Savannah, I’ll take charge of the children. I don’t shirk my duty, you know. Poor waifs. They are not to suffer for the misfortunes of their parents, if I can help it. Bonard looks just like himself, by the way. That’s always a comfort, though I shall never get over the cruel surprise of his going.”
The funeral was perhaps less noteworthy for what it mourned of the past than of what it suggested for the future to some of those attending. There was, of course, a general sympathy for the young widow and her fatherless children. There always is in such cases, or there is said to be.
For a dozen years Annabel and Frankie had shared a seesaw; suddenly Annabel believed herself in command. The temptation to use her advantage was assured by her natural arrogance. While keeping a firmly bereaved expression on her face, she allowed her thoughts to dance with future possibilities.
James Davis in his pew was still erect and handsome at fifty-three, his blind face showing none of his feelings as he listened to the words of the Reverend Quarterman and the music made by his sister and Miss Kilmer. He was, in truth, at the boil with randiness, his folded hands on his lap serving a purpose beyond repose. For the two years before her death his wife Maggie had provided fewer rewards than responsibilities. After husbands were found for Rebecca, Cora, and Beatrice, Maggie gave herself happily to gluttony. James grudged her the pleasures of the board only to the degree they inhibited his pleasures of the bed. He was a sensual man. Never a womanizer, ever faithful to his current mate, he nonetheless carried an aura of sensuality neither missed nor misinterpreted by the more susceptible of his female acquaintances. Blindness only added salt to his appeal. Maggie’s fatness had finally rendered her incapable of indulging her husband’s needs, and James suffered a lonely sexual hell. Since her death he’d had enough kindness from Cora, Beatrice, and Rebecca, whose solicitude had become mere bossiness. As he sat surrounded and feeling smothered by them and their dull husbands and foolish children, he wanted to sweep them aside and be his own free man again. He wanted a woman, one woman warm and willing in his arms and in his bed.
Half a dozen rows behind him sat Eugene and Bessie and Theodore Aquinas Betchley. After his fight with Benjamin Davis, Eugene had been sent to Savannah to engage in the shipping arrangements for timber cut by the Davis-Saxon mill. There he had given useful service and been given useful opportunities, achieving a name for cunning and reliability to balance his continuing reputation for quick and harsh response. Traveling by train as he often did between Savannah and Highboro, he had lost the sense of adventure first provided by the calculated munificence of Sarah Troy on the occasion of his marriage. Eugene had become respectable, his past escapades with Alf Crawford forgotten. Alf himself had abruptly decided to become senile and lived with the family of his daughter Alvina in the next county to the north. He was said to spend his days whittling and to show no interest in catering to others’ needs for alcohol or fornication. Bessie kept her farm and her second son, Eugene providing for them, although he could no longer be said to live with them. He lived nowhere. A rooming house in Savannah, another in Highboro for an occasional night’s lodging when a return to the farm was impractical—these served his needs for food and shelter. If he enjoyed other satisfactions than those offered by his good wife, so did most of the men who dealt with him find such diversion away from home.
During the half-year period of Bonard’s gradual disintegration Eugene spent more and more time in Highboro, as James Davis found his presence more necessary in the day-to-day running of the sawmill. He had achieved the advantages of respectability without being required to lead an entirely regular life. If he did no more than his duty by Bessie, had she not been lucky to marry him? She was a woman older than he and mother of a bastard. No one suggested that Eugene neglected his wife, not even Bessie.
On the morning he fled the woods of Beulah Land leaving his traps and, although he did not know it, his boyhood behind him, he had looked upon the Marsh farm as a piece of property to acquire and had worked to get it. He was not lazy. He worked for Bessie before and after he married her and her farm. Now he worked for the sawmill. If the death of Bessie’s mother had cleared his path earlier, the death of Bonard Saxon now presented him with matter for speculation.
The funeral over, there were many to press declarations of regard upon the widow. Eugene spoke his platitudes clumsily, merely looking at her. James, with the excuse of blindness and family connection, massaged her hands in the warmest way. Frankie was thinking of neither, for her mind was consumed with the question that had not left it for two days: What is a poor woman to do?
3
“What is a poor woman to do?”
They lay close for warmth, not passion’s sake; they had already made love, and they were as used to each other’s bed habits as a married couple.
“I wish you could be my wife,” Benjamin said.
“I shan’t feel obliged to thank you for an offer you’re in no position to make. Priscilla will live to be old. No matter how long you live, Priscilla will live an hour longer.”
His smile was brief. “And they’ll say she died because she couldn’t live on without me.”
“How do you like not feeling guilty?” Frankie asked.
He pretended surprise and mild offense. “I never did.” After a moment he amended the assertion. “I haven’t for a long time, years.”
“I think you miss it.”
“No.”
“Something was different.”
“You talk too much.”
“I like to talk, and so do you.”
He had been thinking over what she said. “Maybe it was different. It’s the first time since he died and a long time since the last time.”
“Thirteen days,” she said.
He stroked her foot with his own for the compliment of counting the days since they had met privately.
“This is luxury.” She sighed.
“A narrow bed in a square room of a cotton gin,” he teased her. “Not even a stove to warm you.”
“You’re my stove,” she said. He rubbed himself against her. “Too hot.”
“Burn.” His arms and legs went around her.
“I’ve burned enough for one day.” He relaxed his arms and legs to make it easier for her to free herself if she wanted to. When he relaxed, she relaxed. “Luxury,” she repeated. “I am luxury, you are luxury, we are luxury. It’s like a class at Roman’s school. I wish I had already got up and dressed; I’d be warm. I wouldn’t have to get out of bed now and shiver while I dress and wait for my own body to warm me.” His arms and legs moved to hold her
again. Submitting but not succumbing, she observed him as he idly nuzzled her breast. His lips were at first soft as her own flesh. Then they firmed as he opened them to taste her. “I enjoy you,” she said. “Not merely your enjoyment of me. I enjoy you. I don’t think women find men very interesting. I can amuse myself wondering what it would be like in bed with this or that one; but usually I’m thinking of their response to me, not mine to them. Now, you. I’m pleased but also puzzled why that part of me makes you concentrate so. What is there about it? I don’t think of a part of you as particularly appetizing. I like your hands, but it’s what they do to me, not the hands themselves. Ow! You bit me—”
He wiped his mouth on her hair. “I can bite harder than that. I could bite you in two.”
“What happened to that girl you told me about?” He lay still. “You know, the one you dream about sometimes.”
“You mean Nancy?”
“Yes, that Negro girl you grew up with and then found in a whorehouse in Savannah.”
“Nancy,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“She was born on Beulah Land and stayed with us all through the war. I wish she’d stayed forever.”
“You used to meet up at the Glade and do it, you told me. Don’t you know what became of her?”
“I don’t know where she is now,” he said. “Abraham thinks he saw her on the street in Savannah one time, a year or so ago; but when he called, the woman hurried on, and he decided he’d been wrong. She was Abraham’s mammy when his own died, so he had a feeling for her.”
After a moment she said, “Was she better than I am?”
“Yes.”
“What way?” she asked interestedly.
“All.”
She slapped him hard on his naked shoulder and then on the face.
The Legacy of Beulah Land Page 22