Duet for Three Hands (30 page)

“Thank you.”

W
hitmore

W
hitmore waited
with Nate on the wobbly front porch of the decaying Victorian for Sarah and Alba Rains to come down from their living quarters.

Hearing the women approaching, Whitmore held out his hand to Nate. “I know you’re not sure about this. But, thank you.”

Nate’s eyes reddened, and he glanced toward the street. “Just get some rest. We’ll sort it all out.” Then, to Whit’s surprise, Nate pulled him into a quick embrace before heading down the rickety steps of the porch.

Alba and Sarah were twins, both grizzled and gray, with identical whiskers growing out of their protruding chins. They took Whitmore down a dark hallway to a small room at the back of the first floor that smelled of dust and decaying wood; it held a twin bed against one wall, a desk with a chair, and a braided rug. A large glass window looked out onto a dry lawn. “Window opens if it feels stuffy,” the sister in the plaid dress said.

“He won’t want the window open,” the other said.

“He surely will,” her sister replied.

“The room’s fine.” He followed the women back to the desk in the foyer area near the front door.

“I’m Alba, and this here is Sarah. We live upstairs and only come down when absolutely necessary.” Alba lowered herself gingerly into the chair at the desk.

“Sister’s not as good on the stairs as she once was.” Sarah stood at the side of the desk, scrutinizing him with eyes the same faded blue as her house dress.

Alba opened the guest ledger. “Sister’s the one can’t get up the stairs anymore. I’m as fit as a fiddle.” As far as Whitmore could see, the sisters seemed to be in the exact same condition.

“We expect quiet after eight p.m.” Alba wrote his name into the guest ledger.

Whit nodded politely. “Of course.”

Alba continued, as if she hadn’t heard him, “We have loaded shotguns we keep by our beds. We come down shooting if we hear any noises in the middle of the night.”

“What my sister is trying to say, young man, is we expect quiet at night. No women or drink.”

“I understand. I won’t cause you a bit of trouble.”

Sarah, still standing, crossed her arms. “We’ll need at least a week in advance. That’s two dollars a week.”

“Fine.” Whitmore took the money from his wallet and laid it the desk.

Sarah, continuing to watch him with distrusting eyes, wrapped a knobby hand on the back of her sister’s chair. She raised a bushy, white eyebrow and said to Whit, “You don’t look too good.”

Alba looked up from putting the money in her dress pocket. “You sick? We don’t want to catch anything.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been traveling for several days. I’m here to see about a girl.”

“You best get cleaned up first,” Alba said. “No sweetheart gonna kiss you looking like you do.”

Sarah looked at her sister, shaking her head. “Sister, what do you know about sweethearts?”

“I figure more than you, sister.”

Whitmore stepped back from the desk, muttering a polite farewell before heading toward his room. As he shut the door, he heard the women making their way up the stairs slowly, bickering over the price of bread. “I saw seven cents,” one said.

“Surely it was eight cents. You don’t see as well as you used to, sister,” replied the other.

In his room, Whit sat at the desk, his hands between his knees, rocking back and forth, trying to conjure the right words to say to Jeselle that might shift her thinking, whatever it was. He moved to the bed, took off his shoes, and reclined with his hands folded behind his head. He counted fourteen bumps in the ceiling and one broken cobweb in the corner by the window. The glass panes were dirty and overlooked an old drooping oak tree. A child’s rotting swing hung by a rope from a thick branch. Was it the sisters’ swing from long ago? He tried to imagine the old women as children but couldn’t envision them without their crepe paper faces, coiled white braids, and stooped shoulders. Had either ever had a sweetheart? Were their hearts broken once? Had they waited for someone who never came?

Ironic, he thought; he needed persuasive words now, but Jeselle was the writer. He closed his eyes, the pain there in his chest again, remembering Jeselle crouched in the butler’s pantry at the lake house, scribbling word after word into the diaries his mother gifted to her every year on her birthday. It made him think, then, of his mother’s bold decision to educate Jeselle all those years ago.

He’d never thought to ask his mother, or perhaps never had the courage to ask, why? He only knew his mother’s choice to rebel against her husband, her upbringing, and every cultural norm of her time had set something in motion that was intertwined in every aspect of his life. Like the first hasty movement of a water bug on his beloved lake, the ripples of that one decision spread in wider and wider circles—a courageous move toward some equilibrium in a chaotic and unjust world.

He remembered the baby, again, with the same dart of shock. There would be a baby. And what world would he or she inherit? Would there ever be enough ripples of love set in motion to change humankind? He had to believe it started with one action, one movement toward love.

L
ydia

A
fter Nathaniel left
with Whitmore for the boarding house, Lydia stayed in Nathaniel’s office to await his return. It was nearing two in the afternoon, and she ate an apple she found on his desk, staring at Frances’s photograph. Soon she was at the piano, her fingers flexed and lifted, tapping up and down the piano keys, practicing her assigned scales. She was on the second exercise when the idea came to her, so abruptly that she stopped playing. It was France. They must live in France. Whitmore and Jeselle could live there as man and wife, openly.

Just last month she’d read an article about the dancer Josephine Baker, a beautiful and eccentric black woman who had moved to Paris in order to live without the cultural constraints of America.

Later, as she and Nathaniel drove out of town to get Jeselle, she attempted to adjust her skirt to allow some air to reach her hot skin. What was this? Her skirt was stuck, caught in the car door. She’d closed the door on her own skirt. What an absolute oaf. It would be frayed and tattered by the time they reached Jeselle. She moved closer to the door, hoping to keep it from ripping.

Goodness, it was hot. Stifling actually. The inside of the car smelled of rubber with a hint of gasoline. Lydia rolled down her window, allowing the breeze to blow on her face, aware that this was the first time she’d ridden in a car without her braid. As they headed away from town, she glanced, with just a slight slip of her eyes, at Nathaniel’s austere profile. In the afternoon light she saw that the rims of his eyes were pink and he was graying at his temples. He sat perfectly upright, elbow resting on the open window frame, looking straight ahead, his body moving only with the jars and bumps of the road.

As they drove deeper into the country, the smell of freshly plowed soil drifted in through their open windows. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, were rows and rows of cotton. The pickers were scattered among the rows, carrying sacks over their slumped forms.

“Does Jeselle walk all this way?” she asked, forgetting her vow not to talk too much.

“I drive her.”

She blinked, surprised. “Why doesn’t she live in?”

“We don’t have enough bedrooms.”

Not enough bedrooms? That model of kit home usually had at least two rooms upstairs. And then it occurred to her what that implied: he did not share a bedroom with his wife. She turned away, feeling embarrassed. Dust drifted in through the windows, sticking to their skin and clothes. Lydia glanced at Nathaniel. His face, pale, dripped with perspiration, and his eyes appeared unfocused. “You feeling peaked?” she asked, alarmed.

His voice sounded dry, almost raspy. “Something Jeselle said. Probably nothing.”

“What is it?”

“She said Frances is gone in the afternoons.” He wiped his face again with the handkerchief and slowed the car as they turned a corner. “That is not my understanding of how Frances spends her afternoons.”

Lydia gazed at the giant oaks alongside the road. Moss hung from burdened branches.

“It’s probably nothing,” he repeated.

They drove in silence for several minutes until Lydia turned to him. “Have you heard of Josephine Baker, the entertainer?”

He nodded. “She’s the Negro singer that sings and dances half-clothed?”

She chuckled. “Some might think of her as risqué, but I’m quite an admirer.”

Eyes still on the road, she saw his mouth turn up in a brief smile. “Lydia Tyler, you’re nothing if not unpredictable.”

“She lives in Paris. Without cultural constraints.”

He looked at her full in the face, and the car veered to the right, so that they were precariously close to the ditch. “You think they should move to France?”

“Exactly.”

“What an idea.” He yanked the wheel, straightening the car, his eyes focused on the road again. “How would we get them to France?”

“Ocean liner.”

“No. Too dangerous. There’s talk of war over there. Hitler wants to spread his power east from Germany. I can’t imagine it won’t include west—possibly France—at some point in time. He wants power, Lydia, and will try to get it however he can. No European country will be safe from war if the speculation is correct.”

She paused for a moment, considering what he meant. “A second world war? Surely that cannot happen again?”

“Lydia.”

“Couldn’t be more of a risk than staying here,” she said softly.

“We can’t know that.”

She turned and looked out her window, peeved that he hadn’t seized on the idea. “Nathaniel.” Her voice wobbled. She swallowed, hard. Why did this man evoke such emotion from her? “Think of the baby.”

He took in a breath and shifted in his seat.

“In France there are others like them. I’ve read about it.”

“What if he’s miscalculated somehow?” asked Nathaniel.

“Miscalculated?”

“What if she’s not the girl he thinks she is?” His eyes never left the road, but he jerked his head toward the window in a slight movement that reminded her of a yoked animal.

“Are you speaking about yourself, or are you thinking of Whit?”

They passed a creek. “I married Frances because there was a baby coming.”

“Oh. Well.” She opened her purse, pulling out a handkerchief, wiping a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of her neck. “No situation is exactly the same as another.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but the shock of what he’d just told her made it difficult.

“Here it is,” he said as he turned down a dirt driveway.

Tension made her sit up taller when they turned a corner and she saw Jeselle sitting in a rocking chair, knitting, on the porch of a ramshackle house. Nathaniel turned off the car just as Jeselle pushed herself up out of the rocking chair in the way pregnant women must and cupped a hand over her eyes, squinting. He moved to open his door. Lydia put her hand on his jacket sleeve. “Wait, what do we say?”

His eyes were sharp. “You’re not saying anything. You’re staying in the car.”

She turned in the seat and faced him. “What’s given you the idea that you can tell me what to do outside the practice room?”

He continued to stare at her for a moment, his eyes impatient. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“That’s not your job.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Fine. Come along if you wish.”

“I will.”

As they approached, Jeselle jumped down from the porch and stood watching them, the ball of yarn unraveling. A black and white kitten leaped from under the porch and began to bat the yarn between its paws. “Mr. Nate? Mrs. Tyler? Is something wrong?”

“Whit came to my office today,” said Nathaniel. “Looking for you.”

Jeselle’s lower lip trembled. “He shouldn’t have come here.”

“He knows about the baby,” said Nathaniel.

“Did you tell him?”

“He says he loves you,” said Nathaniel.

“You tell him to go home. Tell him nothing good can come of it.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away with ferocious swipes. “You tell him that for me.”

“What if there was a place you could go where you could live together as man and wife?” Lydia asked. Lydia felt Nathaniel’s gaze piercing through her.

“There is no such place.”

Lydia kept her voice low. “What if there was? Would you go?”

Before the girl could answer, they were startled by a sound from the porch. Lydia looked over to see a black woman standing in the doorway, hands on skinny hips, scowling in their direction. Jeselle composed her face, but there was terror in her eyes. “Bess will wonder what you’re here for.”

Lydia’s mind worked quickly. “Tell her we came by because Mr. Fye needs you to come into work.”

Jeselle nodded and spoke quietly. “Whit’s naive. He won’t see it.”

“What if we could figure a way?” Lydia asked her again.

Jeselle’s brown eyes snapped. Nathaniel shuffled his feet. “Why do you care?” asked Jeselle.

Nathaniel put his hand on Lydia’s forearm. It felt like a peace offering. Lydia softened. “She’s a friend.” He spoke gently. “Jeselle, answer her question.”

“The answer would be yes, if I didn’t know better.” Jeselle’s eyes darted to Bess, waiting on the porch, and then back again to their faces.

Lydia stepped closer, putting her hand on Jeselle’s forearm. “Come with us. He’s waiting for you.”

Jeselle blinked, cocked her head. “Wait just a moment, please.”

She turned and walked quickly toward the house, saying something to her cousin that Lydia couldn’t hear before starting back toward them. Bess stood with her hands clasped together at her chest, eyes on the yard.

N
athaniel escorted
Jeselle into the boarding house while Lydia waited in the car. She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers, looking out the window but seeing nothing.

When he slid behind the steering wheel again, Nate took off his hat and wiped his brow. “The sisters who run the place weren’t at the desk, thank the good Lord. I said I’d come back for Jeselle after I drop you off.”

They drove in silence. When they arrived at the edge of campus, Nathaniel slowed the car, parking next to the lawn. He took the keys out of the ignition and turned to face her. “Can Jeselle travel in her condition?”

“She needs to go within the next several weeks or not at all.”

“All right then. Let’s propose the idea to Whitmore. See if he’s really willing to walk away from everything and go to France.”

She studied him. “What’s made you change your mind?”

“I don’t see a safer option.” He appeared to study his keys, moving them one by one until they looked like a fan in the palm of his hand. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

“What do I think exactly?”

“That I’m small-minded.” He continued to gaze at his keys. “I’ve been all over the world, you know.” He cleared his throat, looking up and into her eyes. “I don’t protest your ideals.”

“Ideals only matter if you use them to actually do something.”

He looked at her steadily. A magnolia blossom from a nearby tree drifted onto the car’s windshield. “Perhaps.” There was a slight flicker in his eyes. “I would’ve given anything for my baby son to have lived. I would’ve done anything. Anything. And I’ll do anything for Whit. But I’m frightened to lose him. Sometimes I think he’s all I have.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “Nathaniel, I’m sorry about your son.”

“His name was John.”

“John.”

“My father’s name.” He dropped the keys into his lap. Shifting in the seat, he leaned closer and brushed the side of her face with his fingertips. “Lydia Tyler, I wish I didn’t care so much what you think of me.”

Her heart pounded. A roar started between her ears. “I couldn’t think more of you than I already do.” She put her hand on the door handle. “I have to go.” She opened the door, blind and trembling, and put her feet on the ground. Steps from her dormitory, she turned to look back, startled to see him standing by his car, watching her. He lifted his hat, and she waved, feeling like a schoolgirl sneaking home in the middle of the night.