Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (7 page)

L’américaine
had immediately put Josie off her
footing. Abigail wore a stylish gown of gray silk trimmed in white. Her blond
hair was swept up and topped by a gray lace cap. Josie felt her own shabbiness
keenly.

Maman’s sister Marguerite, elegant in black lace but red
eyed and blotchy, entered the rose arbor. “My dear Josephine,” she managed
before grief overcame her. She sat next to Josie and held her hand while she
struggled to control herself. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “You must
rely on me, Josephine,” she said hoarsely. “I will try to be a mother to you,
whenever you need me.” She kissed Josie’s cheek and, with her handkerchief at
her nose, joined her husband among the rose beds.

Tante Marguerite’s genuine sorrow brought Josie’s own grief
to the surface, and she was having a difficult time. Abigail didn’t seem to
notice.

“All of us Americans,” Abigail drawled, “paint our houses
white, generally. But here your little home is green, yellow, red. And the
Oulette house across the river from us. I believe there are four colors in
their paintwork. It’s all very quaint. Almost foreign.”

Foreign?
Josie thought.
When my family has been in
Louisiana for generations, and hers has just arrived?

When Cleo came to call her to dinner, Josie thought she’d
been rescued, but Grand-mère had business ever on her mind. She maneuvered the
Johnstons so that Josie was surrounded by them.

The black dress was heavy, and the sweat ran down Josie’s
sides in rivulets. The shade and the breeze under the oaks revived her
somewhat, but she couldn’t eat. Bibi kept filling her glass, and she drank, but
the fried chicken on her plate nauseated her.

“Mercy,” Abigail said as the gentleman across the table
passed her a plate of pickles.

Mercy?
Josie thought.
That’s an English word. Oh,
Good heavens, she means ‘merci.' Her French is worse than my English.

Abigail’s brother Albany said a few words to Josie, she
hardly noticed what. The buzzing of the flies looking for an escape from the
sugar-water trap filled her head so that his voice seemed far away.

At the ringing of Father Philippe’s bell, everyone gathered
in the courtyard where the priest had set up his altar. Josie, Papa,
Grand-mère, and the many aunts sat on the front benches.

“
Dominus vobiscum,
” Father Philippe intoned. “
Et
cum spiritu tuo,
” the mourners answered.

After mass, Father Philippe led everyone to the family
graveyard on the knoll south of the house. The little cemetery smelled of fresh
earth and heat. The sun pounded Josie’s aching head, but Father Philippe had
claimed the only shade, and Grand-mère stood next to him.

As the priest’s voice buzzed on, Josie’s attention was on
Papa. Poor Papa, who stood erect and silent, but whose face was wet with tears.

Tante Marguerite too wept for Maman, but, strangely, Josie
could not cry. Her eyes felt hot and swollen, but there were no tears. The
noisiest mourner was Abigail Johnston. Josie watched Albany pull his sobbing
sister out of the crowd and lead her away. Then Papa’s hand tightened on hers,
and Josie felt his arm tremble. Papa would need her from now on.

The house began to settle down. The children slept on
pallets while the women gossiped in the parlor and in the
garçonnière
.
The young mothers leaned against the headboards of the beds and let their
elders fill the chairs. On the riverside gallery, the men gathered in the
twilight to smoke their cigars.

As dusk approached, Josie climbed the ancient knoll to
receive the slaves’ condolences at her mother’s tomb. Elbow John stood just
behind her, but Josie wished Cleo or Bibi were with her. They were needed to
wait on the company, though, and Papa and Grand-mère were occupied with the
Chamard kin from the Cane River.

Josie’s head ached fiercely. This would be her last task of
the day, and then she could retreat to her bed.

Still wearing the sweat-stained black dress, the purple cast
lost in the dim light, Josie stood at the head of the newly whitewashed crypt.
The river breeze brought the scent of magnolias and the promise of rain.

In ones and twos the men, women, and children from the
quarters came to the little cemetery. They placed bundles of wild flowers on
the crypt, a necklace of shells, a handful of glass beads. Ursaline, who
everyone knew practiced Vodou at the same time she wore a wooden cross around
her neck, dug a quick small hole at the base of the tomb and as quickly covered
the offering. Maria laid two red feathers on the crypt, and more flowers
covered the first gifts.

Josie acknowledged everyone who passed by her. The ones
whose names she didn’t know, she thanked with a nod and a “
Que Dieu te
bénisse.
”

Having paid their respects, the slaves lingered around the
graveyard. The lament began softly, gently, as Old Sam’s humming reverberated
through the crowd. Some began to moan and others cried out. Josie swayed with
the rhythm until she feared she’d be overcome. She reached for Elbow John, who
led her away from the increasing intensity of the keening.

The wailing and the singing rode on the breeze toward the
big house as Josie followed Elbow John through the night. Thunder growled from
the west. John held the candle high, but it only made the darkness that much
blacker outside its circle.

There was still a light in the cookhouse. As Josie neared
the corner of the log building, she heard Louella’s voice.

“You gone put a bundle of stickers on her grave?”

“Non, I don’ do dat, Louella. I don’ be so mean.” That was
Bibi’s voice.

“After what she do to you and yo poor boy?”

Josie stopped and looked in the window at the two women
grinding corn by lamplight.

“Dat a long time ago, Louella, and only de good God know if
Thibault be simple ‘cause she beat me.” Bibi lifted her chin. “And M’sieu
Emile, I ‘ad the best of ‘im, I know dat.”

Elbow John took Josie’s arm to pull her along, but she
resisted.

“Madame Celine don’ hate me mo’ dan she could help,” Bibi
went on. “I put no stickers on her grave. And Cleo neither.”

John whistled then, and the women glanced at each other and
hushed.

Josie wrenched her arm from Elbow John and ran on to the
gallery, guided by the glowing ends of cigars. She made a hasty good night to
the gentlemen and found her room at last. She closed the door, and was glad
there was no candle lit on her table. Glad, too, to be alone.

Not caring if she tore the buttonholes, Josie struggled out
of the ancient dress and kicked the hateful thing under the bed. Tante
Marguerite had brought her an extra black dress from her own wardrobe for
tomorrow, and it would be fresh and sweet-smelling.

Prickly with heat, Josie washed from the basin. Over and
over, she squeezed the wet cloth, letting the water run over her to drench the
towel on the floor. A lightning flash lit the room, and merciful cooling rain
began to splash on the bricks outside.

The drapes billowed and the rain spattered in. Josie lowered
the window and watched the drops bead on the glass and run in little streams to
the sash. Thunder boomed on the river, reminding her of another storm when the
rain had pattered hard against the windows. She’d been very young then.

She and Cleo had been playing with dolls in front of the
fireplace. The wind had rattled the windows and rain pelted the glass, but
she’d felt cozy and safe with Papa nearby reading the papers and Maman tatting
a lace collar.

Josie was struggling to dress the new porcelain doll Papa
had brought from Paris for her sixth birthday. Cleo, in her flour-sacking
dress, played alongside, pulling tiny pantalets onto one of the old dolls.

“Maman, her arms are too big for the sleeves,” Josie said.

“Josephine, you see I’m busy.”.

“Let’s have a look,” Papa said. He put aside the newspaper
and pulled Josie into the space between his legs. Gently he worked the velvet
sleeves over the doll’s arms. “There,” he said. “Once you get her hands in, the
sleeves fit well enough.” He kissed the top of Josie’s head and picked up his
paper.

Mama studied Cleo sitting before the firescreen. “Did you
see that Cleo’s hands were clean before she handled your doll?”

Cleo kept her head down as if she hadn’t heard.

“Yes, Maman,” Josie said. “Cleo’s hands are clean.” They
weren’t, but Josie hadn’t wanted Cleo sent away. It was dull playing alone.

Bibi came in carrying the tea things, moving slowly with her
belly grown so big. Josie already knew that this woman who sang to her as she dressed
her in the mornings, who kissed her scrapes and bruises, who slept at the foot
of her bed each night – she already knew that woman was invisible in Maman’s
presence. Cleo smiled at Bibi, though, and Josie worried that Maman would see.

“The tea is ready, Madame,” Bibi said.

Maman motioned with her tatting needle. “On the table. You
may pour for Monsieur Tassin first.”

Papa set the newspaper aside to accept his tea. Josie
watched him, and she watched Bibi. She didn’t know what she was looking for,
but she felt the change in the air whenever Bibi and Papa and Maman were in the
room together.

Maman’s eyes were on Papa, but Papa’s eyes were on his
teacup when he said, “
Merci
, Bibi.”

Bibi poured tea into another of the delicate cups and turned
to serve Maman. But Maman just at that moment was rising from her chair and
knocked the cup with her elbow. The tea spattered Maman’s silk gown. The blue
china shattered on the hard wood floor.

“You clumsy cow!” Quick as a snake, Maman slapped Bibi’s
face. The kerchief on Bibi’s head flew off, and Josie was embarrassed for her
that the wooly hair was uncovered in front of Maman and Papa.

“Now, Celine,” Papa said. “It was just an accident.”

Maman’s lips were tight and almost white as she looked full
in Papa’s face.

“Don’t you take her part. Don’t you dare take her part.”

“I’m just saying, Celine . . .”

Papa glanced at Bibi as she held her belly and bent down to
retrieve the kerchief.

Papa said again, “It was an accident.”

Maman’s face turned red as she glared at Papa. Then she
turned from him and very deliberately grabbed a handful of Bibi’s hair and
yanked her up.

Josie began to cry. Cleo trembled, her eyes on Bibi’s face
as Maman slapped her again and again, the white hand bright against the brown
cheek.

Papa rushed to gather Cleo in his arms. Cleo first, Josie
remembered. Then he grabbed Josie’s hand and took the girls to his own room,
away from the sound of Maman’s slaps, of Maman’s chanted “slut, slut, slut” in
time to the blows.

In the bedroom, he pulled Josie and Cleo into his lap and
rocked them, humming to cover the sounds from the parlor. Josie breathed in the
smell of his cologne, of tobacco and pomade, and held Papa’s big hand in both
her own.

She heard Bibi leave the parlor, her steps heavy and
uncertain. Then Maman’s sobs began.

“Maman’s crying,” Josie said.

Papa shook his head and hummed louder.

Josie looked at Cleo on Papa’s other knee. Cleo leaned
against his chest, her thumb in her mouth. Papa had put red pepper salve on
Josie’s thumb all last summer, but Cleo, just as big as Josie, could still suck
hers. Josie reached over and tugged Cleo’s hand down.

Cleo’s eyes flashed, and she put her thumb back in her
mouth, snuggling deeper into Papa’s lap.

“He’s my father,” Josie said, and pulled at Cleo to unseat
her from Papa’s knee.

“Josie,” Papa said.

Josie shoved Cleo and reached for the kerchief that covered
her black curls.

“Josie! I won’t have this. You’re not going to be like that,
not you.” Papa stood up and pushed Josie onto her bottom. “Sit there,” he said.

He sat in the rocker and pulled Cleo back into his lap.

Cleo’s thumb went into her mouth and she leaned her head
against Papa’s chest. On the cold floor, Josie curled into her own lap and
sobbed. The rain blew against the window, and Papa’s chair rocked back and
forth.

The night of Maman’s funeral, then, as lightning cracked
through the clouds, Josie at last understood. Maman hated Bibi, and Cleo,
because Papa loved them. And the baby Bibi had been carrying that rainy night . . . that was Thibault, Papa’s baby.

Josie covered her face. Shame weakened her knees, and she
collapsed to the floor, as she had done at Papa’s feet so many years before.

Far into the night, lightning struck the old live oak in the
courtyard. Josie felt the blast before she heard it. She fumbled with the
netting and rushed to the window. Cleo, from her pallet on the other side of
the room, was right behind her.

“Move over,” Cleo said. She opened the sash and pushed the
shutters aside, heedless of the rain spattering her.

The tree, only forty feet from the window, blazed like a
giant torch even in the downpour.

Papa rushed into the room with a candle held high. Josie
didn’t know the two men who followed him. They were fully dressed, and the
scent of tobacco and liquor told her the men had probably been playing cards in
Papa’s room.

Papa put the candle on the table. He picked up Josie’s shawl
from the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You’ll catch a chill.
Cleo, child, close the window.”

Josie held herself stiffly as Papa put his arm around her.
Her feelings for him were raw, and she felt she didn’t know him, not now that
she understood about him and Bibi.

He turned her to face the gentlemen, and she recalled her
bare feet and state of undress.

“My daughter. Monsieurs Chamard and Medout.”

“Mademoiselle Josephine,” Monsieur Medout murmured and
nodded formally.