Feast of All Saints (70 page)

“And this,
ma chère
, is my son’s room.” Madame Suzette threw open the double doors. Marie had felt such a strange pleasure to see it, to think suddenly, incoherently, yes, Richard’s place. For one instant, she had been startled by the sight of the small Daguerreotype of herself by the bed. “You see,” Madame Suzette had laughed lightly lifting it, “you are very much admired.”

Her own bedroom was to the back of the house, and lovely perhaps, Marie was not sure. For no sooner had they entered it than Madame Suzette had taken her into a small adjacent room. This had
been the nursery once, but it was the room where she worked now. Her voice had become grave then, simpler. She had begun to explain about the Benevolent Society and the work that they did. Some two dozen women they were from the old families and some new, she made a little shrug, but united for one purpose, one and all. And that was to see no colored child went hungry, no colored child went without shoes. Even the poorest young girls were to have pretty dresses for their First Communion and if there was a single elderly woman of this parish alone somewhere neglected in a room they must know about it at once. She didn’t say these things with pride. She said them with absorption. She had been sewing on the Communion dresses already for next year. Her hands lifted the sheer netting which would be made into veils. Marie was looking at her now more intently, certainly more directly than before. Because Madame Suzette was no longer meeting her gaze and forcing it away from her without realizing it, and Marie could see her as if she were close and quite far at the same time. They had the responsibility now for some seventeen orphans, she was saying softly with the faintest touch of concern, and she wasn’t sure they were all so well cared for, two in particular were very little to be working so hard in the homes where they were kept. “It’s so important that they learn a means of livelihood,” she was explaining, and then suddenly lost in her thoughts, she let a silence fall in the room.

Marie saw her perfectly against the shelves of folded white cloth, baskets, balls of yarn, her tall and rounded form dully reflected in the immaculate floor. Sunlight poured through the thinly veiled windows, and she said almost to herself, “There is never an end to it really, it will take all that you can give.”

Somewhere in the house a small clock chimed. And then came the grandfather clock below. Madame Suzette was staring at Marie, her eyes vague and wondering and utterly kind. Marie knew that Madame Suzette had moved toward her but it was so silent and swift, she realized only that Madame Suzette’s lips had brushed her cheek. And suddenly Marie was trembling, lifting her hands to her eyes. No, this was unthinkable, this just couldn’t happen to her now, not after all the day’s struggles could she weaken at this moment and lose control.

But she was shaking violently, she couldn’t even be silent, she could not, would not lift her eyes. She knew Madame Suzette was guiding her out of that small workroom and across the bedroom floor. Through her tears she saw the flowers of the carpet and their curling leaves that seemed to flow outward as if the room could not end.

“I am so sorry, so sorry…” she was whispering, “I am so sorry…” over and over again. It seemed warm words were spoken to her, sincere words that stroked her, but they stroked only the outside of her, and left the inside dark and tangled and miserable as the tears continued to flow.

And then a voice came, so low, she thought perhaps it was an illusion. A voice very deep and soft that said with the touch of a great warm hand on her wrist, “Marie!”

“It’s Richard,
ma chère
…” his mother said softly.

And stupidly, blindly, ignoring the proper and generous woman at her side, she reached out, clutched him and buried her face in his neck. She could feel the soft rumble of his voice against her, the world be damned.

“Marie, Marie,” he said almost as if speaking to a little child.

It had been half past four when she left, and the three of them, Richard, his mother, and she, had sat talking quietly as if nothing had happened, as if she had not, without explanation, commenced to cry. There had been fresh coffee, cake, and Richard arguing intimately with his mother that, indeed, if he were to take three spoons of sugar now he might as well throw his supper away. She had had time to collect herself, Madame Suzette holding her hand warmly, the sweet stream of conversation moving on.

At one point she had feared she must explain, how in that moment in the workroom when Madame Suzette was speaking of the orphans, she had felt a longing so immense and so desperate that her soul and her body had become one. But she couldn’t explain this because she did not understand it herself. The Benevolent Societies were nothing new to her, she had heard of them for years, her aunts gave fabric for their sewing, her mother now and then gave old clothes, but perhaps her view of such things had been ironical, distant and trivializing, she was unsure. But one conviction struggled for articulation inside of her even should it never come out: never in her life had she felt such respect, such trust for another woman as she had felt then for Madame Suzette; never had she known a woman could have substance, simplicity, and vigor which all her life she had associated entirely with men. And this it seemed amid the usual feminine trappings which for her had spelt vanity in the past, unendurable hours with the needle, making lace to grace the backs of chairs.

But they had expected nothing of her then, Richard and his mother, only that she sit quietly if indeed she wanted that, and raw as she was she would have known it had Madame Suzette’s soft and dignified concern for her been not so perfectly pure. She was glad she had come! She was almost happy sitting with them in that large front room.

At last she had risen to go. Madame Suzette’s embrace was tense, lingering as was her gaze when she looked into Marie’s eyes. She would send her maid, Yvette, to see Marie home.

Richard had come out on the steps with her, however, refusing to let go of her hand. “I’ll walk with you!” he said almost righteously.

“No!” she’d shaken her head at once. For one moment, Richard’s eyes met her eyes and nothing more was said. “I love you” was spelt there with the understanding that she could not let herself be alone with him and he could not let himself be alone with her. Even in the crowded streets they would have found some place to kiss, to touch. Turning her head, she was gone.

All the afternoon was beautiful to her. The sun was mellow even in the high windows of the townhouses where it turned to solid gold. And then the rain commenced, lightly suffusing all with a cooler, sweeter air. Flowers bent their necks along the garden walls, tiny blossoms broke and fell, shuddering in her path. She was walking fast as always, but uplifted and no longer angry, no longer afraid. It was as if all the gloom that she had ever known was remote from her. It belonged with her aunts and with her mother in some other world.

The Lermontant house with its soft scents and polished surfaces seemed to descend upon her, surrounding her like a fragrance wafted on the breeze. She could feel Madame Suzette’s arm about her shoulder, feel that hand which held hers to the very end. She could see Richard’s eyes.

And not remembering the little maid, Yvette, who followed her faithfully to her gate in the Rue Ste. Anne, she went in without looking back and shut the parlor door. She would not see her aunts today. She would not answer their questions, and Monsieur Philippe would be here, a great and pleasant force between her and her mother. She need not speak to anyone, actually, she would settle at her dresser, she would pull the pins from her hair. And maybe, just maybe, the time had come for her to talk to Marcel. Maybe, just maybe, she would mount the steps of the
garçonnière
later and knock at the door of his room. He would not betray her, he would never betray her, and maybe it was time, now, to tell him what she already knew, that she would marry Richard Lermontant.

But the house was quiet, and Marcel, home early from the Merciers it seemed, sat at the dining table glaring at the floor.

She removed her white shawl. “What is it?” she whispered as she came forward. But he was scowling past her as if she weren’t there.

“Lisette’s in jail,” he said. “Monsieur Philippe’s gone to get her out.”

For one moment the words did not register—“in jail.”

“But why?” she gasped. “How?”

“Drunk, fighting somewhere in a cabaret,” he murmured. Still he did not look at her.

“But she’s been so good since Zazu died. Why, she hasn’t been in any trouble at all.”

Marcel was ruminating. His eyes danced back and forth and then slowly he began to speak again as if he himself could not quite comprehend his own words. “It seems they quarreled, she and Maman, over something stupid, small. And Maman tore off Lisette’s gold earring…ripped it down…gashing open the flesh.”

I
T WAS A HELL OF A MESS
, wasn’t it? Philippe drained the glass, drowsy but just beginning to feel himself again as he always did by noon, the early hours full of tremor, headache. He’d have a little gumbo in a while, perhaps, that is, if Lisette would stop crying and deign to fix it for him. He bit the tip off his cigar. “I said when you were grown!” he stabbed the air with his finger, “and you know the law as well as I do, that means when you’re thirty years old.”

She threw up her hands and as she turned for the match he saw that scar on the side of her face where the lobe of the ear had been cut away. “Pull this down,” he said to her now more gently, attempting not to grimace at the sight of it, but he could not prevent himself from sucking in his breath. He reached for the red silk
tignon
and brought it over the hideous little gnarl. Her eyes were watery, her face puffy. “Hmmmm,” he shook his head. But it was her own fault, wasn’t it, drunk, dirty in the Parish prison. For days after the ear had festered until finally Marcel had all but dragged her to the physician. She was burning with fever and so afraid. “Hmmmp,” he shook his head. “Now, that’s not so bad,” he mumbled to himself as she put the match before him, as he drew in the smoke. “I mean I’ve seen lots of likely girls with one earring, the
tignon
tied quite prettily over the other ear.” Lisette didn’t answer. She was pouring the bourbon in the glass. He didn’t know he had said this to her a hundred times in the past month never recollecting having said it even once. The fact was he felt sorry for her, and the scar on the side of her face made him sick. He had always felt sorry for her, sorry for her since she was born. She had inherited nothing of Zazu’s remarkable African beauty, and certainly no decent Caucasian looks from his blood. It was the worst of luck that copper skin, those yellow freckles, and now that dreadful little scar.

“Come on now, come on,” he crooned as he rested back on the pillows, his large soft hand beckoning for her. “You sit here by me.” She settled almost shyly on the side of the bed, swiping roughly with her apron at her watering eyes. A hell of a mess, to put it mildly, he thought, it wearied him attempting to keep all the disparate elements clear in his mind.

“Michie,” she was saying with a sniffle. “I’ll be an old woman when I’m thirty, Michie, I’m a young woman now.”

She didn’t begin to understand it. Three-fourths of the Parish police jury had to rule on it, and then only for meritorious service could she be emancipated unless he was to post some bond, some outrageous bond of a thousand dollars and she would have to leave the state. Lisette, meritorious service,
Mon Dieu
.

“I can earn my own way,” she was almost whining, “I can cook and clean, I can dress a lady’s hair, I can earn my own way…” It was an awful sound.

“Earn your own way, now don’t start that!” he said roughly, teeth on edge. He drank a swallow of the bourbon, it was smooth and perfectly delicious. He was just beginning to really want some good breakfast, some nice soup. He lowered his voice as he bent forward, he wouldn’t have Marie or Cecile hear a word of this. “You and that Lola woman, that voodooienne, don’t speak to me about earning your own way. Is that what you’ll be up to if you’re set free!”

“Michie,” she shook her head frantically, the voice still that low whine. “I don’t go there anymore, I swear it. Michie, I’ve been good, I’ve been taking care of everything, Michie, I don’t even go out, I swear it.”

Again he drained the glass. He couldn’t bear it, that whining. He was waving at her coarsely with his left hand. It was worse than some field hand begging not to be whipped, it disgusted him, he’d rather hear her banging pots and pans. And what did all this mean about meritorious service, Marcel had explained it but it wasn’t clear. Meritorious service if she was under thirty and born in the state, then she wouldn’t have to be deported, no bond. Meritorious service, Lisette? Fined and imprisoned for brawling in a public street?

“…I’ve tried to be good, good as gold,” she was saying, “and Michie, it’s four months now since my Maman died.”

“Now don’t start that again,” he said. He couldn’t even keep one thought straight and now she was changing her attack. “Your mother was born the same year I was born,” he said with that didactic finger, “I didn’t know she’d die before you were thirty, I didn’t know she’d die when you were still a girl.” Maybe all this foolishness about meritorious service was a formality, Jacquemine could take care of it, write it on the petition, and he would sign it.

“But I’m not a girl, Michie,” her teeth cut into that thick lower lip.
Mon Dieu
, it wasn’t her fault she’d been born so ugly, he looked away from her shaking his head. “Fill this glass.” And suppose he would have to post some bond, where was Marcel, Marcel had all this straight, what was the bond, one thousand dollars,
Mon Dieu!
And what would it cost him, a new serving girl?

“Don’t,
chère
, don’t!” he said now as she sat there crying, tears squeezed from the large protuberant eyes. “Lisette,
ma chère
…” He hugged her shoulder, shook her lightly.

“Please, Michie,” the voice was low and shuddering, “Michie, please let me go!”