The black swan (97 page)

"He did no such thing!"

Rod slid onto his knee, his hand holding hers. "Yes, he did."

"Oh, Rod, get up off the floor!"

"Come on, Zoe, you got Angela an* me sittin* on the edge o' our seats. Ya gonna make him an honest man?" Tom's face split wide in an expectant grin.

Rod's eyes held the question without teasing. He seemed so far away.

"Do you really want to marry me?'*

"Are you going to say yes this time and mean it?**

"Oh yes, yes." At once she was in his arms.

Tom filled two glasses with brandy for himself and Rod and two with blackberry cordial for the women. "Ever seen anything like that, Angela?"

Angela watched Zoe and Rod embrace. Zoe, who had chastised her and come near to calling her a scarlet woman, was now, right before her eyes, making a spectacle of herself with the Yankee whose illegitimate son she had bore. "Never," the girl said acidly. "I thought only white trash behaved like that."

"No, sweetheart, white trash act the way you are right now. I guess you're too young for this anyhow." Tom dumped the cordial back into the decanter. "Run along to your room. No sense in havin' a happy occasion ruined by a spoiled youngun. Go on, now, we got some serious celebratin' to do.'*

Angela raised her head, glaring at her father, then walked unhurriedly from the room.

At the top of the stairs she hesitated. Light showed under Adam's door. She turned toward it, her mind made up. "I saw the light."

Adam put down the chart he had been studying. "I'm glad you did. You don't often come to see me. Sit down. Talk to me."

"I can't. I've been sent to my room.*'

"What have you done this time?"

"I haven't done anything."

"So, your wicked stepmother sent you to your room for nothing."

"I haven't got a stepmother, and it wasn't Aunt Zoe. It was Tom."

"Ohhh. You really are in trouble, then.*'

"Aren't you smug! You always have all the answers."

"Not all, but some. You might do better if you listened once in a while."

Angela laughed. "That's right. Just listen to you and Aunt Zoe, and all the bad things will disappear. My mother won't be a nigger anymore. I'll be like any other white girl. Then I can marry the handsome white prince and live happily ever after." Angela shook her head, a disdainful smile on her face. "You think you know everything. Well, I could tell you a few things if I wanted to."

"Like what?" Adam smiled.

"Like all that stuff, those maps you read, are just a waste of time. No one is going with you to that island. They're all going to say no. They think there's something wrong with your head. Even Aunt Zoe thinks you're daffy, and she's always on your side."

"They'll change their minds when I explain the facts."

**She*s dead. Why do you keep thinking about her?"

"She's not dead."

"Oh, yes she is, and you might as well be! Even if she were alive, she wouldn't want you now. I don't know why I ever thought I loved you either. I don't! I don't anymore!"

"Whoever sent you to your room had the right idea," Adam said wearily. "Get out of here, Angela."

"Oh, listen to the captain giving orders. He really thinks he's somebody! Captain Adam Tremain, fine ol' Southern family with all the trimmin's—even the skeleton in the closet. Isn't that grand!"

"Shut up, Angela."

"Shut up Angela," she mocked. "Don't tell any secrets, Angela. Don't mention dear, sweet, pure Aunt Zoq is a harlot and the good, gallant captain is a bastard. Don't talk to your betters, Angela. Shut up, Angela. Shut up, Angela. Well, I don't have to shut up. Not now or ever. You're no better than me. And neither is Aunt Zoe!'*

Adam stared at her, stunned into silence by her vehemence.

"Do you know what's going on downstairs? They're celebrating—^they're laughing, making a joke of your father proposing to your mother. That's what they're doing. Just like it was all right, and my father is right there with them. And you were going to send me away because I wanted to

marry you. I loved you! I didn't do any of the things Aunt Zoe did. So, why was I so bad? What did I do that was so wrong?"

"What are you—? Go to your room, Angela. I have charts to mark."

"You don't like to hear that do you? Or maybe it's too complicated for you. I forgot, your brains are scrambledr I'll make it simple. Mr. Courtland is your father. Aunt Zoe is your mother. Finally they've decided to get married. Does that mean you'll be legitimate from here on out?"

Adam stared at her in bewilderment. "Where do you get notions like this?"

Angela smiled slyly. "Oh, I don't know. I guess I must have made it all up. Y'all are always sayin' I'm a liar. 'Night, Adam."

Angela walked lightly down the corridor to her room. She rummaged in the back of her cupboard, bringing out a low-cut gown she had stolen from Zoe's wardrobe. Pleased with the effect, Angela concentrated hard as she looked in the mirror, changing her childish hairdo into a sophisticated style she had seen the fancy women of the waterfront saloons wear. Then she tugged at the neckline until it was far off her shoulders, showing an expanse of creamy skin. Quietly she slipped down the servants' stairs.

Adam's pen lightly traced the course from Wilmington to Andros, but his mind wasn't on his charts. Background noises intruded. Laughter. The sounds of clinking glasses. Voices raised happily.

He got out of bed unsteadily. Angela's words lodged in his mind. Rod was his father. Shakily he walked down the stairs toward the light and laughter. His mother's voice was high-pitched and gay.

From the parlor door he watched Rod's arms close around Zoe. She held a cordial glass first to her own lips, then turned it for Rod to drink.

"Can't kiss through a glass. Give your bride-to-be a proper bussin'," Tom said, taking the glass from Zoe.

"Don't you dare. Rod Courtland! It's not proper in public," Zoe giggled.

"Since when am I the damned public?" Tom howled.

Adam stood trembling in the doorway as Rod's lips possessed Zoe's.

"Well, look what showed up for the celebration," Tom

said coming to Adam. "It's about time you got your ass down here. There's congratulations in order. Your Ma and Rod are gonna be married. You always told me you'd make a Rebel out of the old sod. Took your Ma to do it."

Dizzily Adam met Rod's eyes. The room wavered. "You're my father?"

The smile on Rod's face became fixed. He wasn't sure if it was a straigthforward question or simply another of Adam's lapses into a nightmare world that combined past and present indiscriminately. Cautiously he said, "I guess marrying your mother would make me your father." Rod led him to a chair. "Here, sit down. You shouldn't have come down those stairs. You look ready to pass out."

Adam leaned back, his face ashen and covered with a moist sheen. Tom shoved his brandy to Adam's lips.

"You're my father," Adam repeated. "Angela . . ."

Rod considered, then took Zoe's cold hand in his. "Yes, I am. Your mother and I have always loved one another, and both of us have loved you. I don't know what else to tell you. You've always thought of Paul Tremain as your father, but he wasn't. It's that simple."

"Adam, I want you to be happy about this," Zoe said earnestly. "I am, dear. I've never been so happy."

"We'd like your blessings, Adam, if you're able to give them."

Adam nodded, unable to do more. The brandy had hit his stomach like a hammer blow. Voices all blended together. The room swam, colors bleeding into one another, then fading to a misty gray.

Rod and Tom carried him back to his room. "Hell of a way for him to find out." Tom scowled. "Where the hell is Angela? Damn! I sent her to her room. I've got some talkin' to do to that young lady."

He ran down the hall in his crab-legged way. "She's not in her room! I knew it, danm it, I know that little heifer has gone out on the town."

"Slow down, Tom."

"I'm gonna find her. Then I'm gonna beat her."

Zoe said, "She'll be back soon. I don't really think she does anything bad. She just runs when something upsets her."

"How long's this gone on, Zoe? You never told me why Adam was bringin' her to the swamp. It was this, wasn't it? There's men."

"I don't know for sure. Adam—"

Tom's face screwed up. "Of course, Adam! She's always been hankerin' after him. What'd she do?"

"Nothing! Tom, please, you're excited and angry. We were just worried that she was going to get into trouble. She is very open with . . . everyone. I don't think she realizes what some of these soldiers are capable of. She's familiar with honorable men. She is just young—"

"Zoe, you're a good woman, but you're dead wrong. I been keepin' my eyes closed tight against every thin' that li'l girl has been doin' an' thinkin' for the past two-three years. But not after tonight."

Angela came in the rear entrance of the house shortly before two o'clock in the morning. Zoe, half-asleep against Rod's shoulder, awakened, alert to the change in the house noises.

Tom was heading through the kitchen before a word was spoken. Zoe moved to follow. Rod pulled her back. "She's his daughter. Let him handle it. I haven't been alone with you all evening."

"I don't understand Angela, Rod. Why does she do the things she does?" Her eyes turned toward the angry voices emanating from the kitchen. Rod pressed her against him, pressing his hand over her ear.

"Mind your own business, Zoe."

She wriggled against him, then smiled up at him. "What is my business?"

He kissed her, his hands warm and searching over her bodice. "I'm your business. Can't you concentrate on that?'*

"I have been—for years."

"You don't suppose, in your ponderings, you could find a more comfortable place for me to sleep, do you?"

She giggled, "I thought you liked the sofa. You said it was the most comfortable sofa you'd ever slept on."

"It's the only sofa I've ever slept on. You see I never Ue."

"So where do you propose to sleep? There's the cot— **

"There's Zoe's bed."

"Rod, that's sinful."

"What I'm feeling is just as sinful. Shall we share one sin, or shall we both commit our separate ones?" . She was laughing when Tom stormed back into the room. "Have you seen what your sweet little protegee

looks like when she gets herself all done up, Zoe? Get in here, Angela! Get in here, damn it, or I'll bring you in myself."

Reluctantly, her face smeared with tears, her heavy makeup smudged across her face by Tom's ungentle hands, Angela stood in front of Rod and Zoe, her eyes blazing.

Zoe drew in her breath. "Angela ... oh, Angela—^your pretty face. How could you do that to yourself?"

Angry tears gushed from Angela's eyes. "You didn't care. None of you cared about me. I found someone who does."

"You go near him again and I'll break every bone in your head. We'll see how pretty you are then," Tom said savagely. "She's been galavantin' with some black buck."

Zoe swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Tom himself had married a black woman, but UUah had never seemed any color to Tom. Angela's young man did. "Go to bed now, Angela. In the morning . . . it'll seem better."

Angela's fists were clenched. A tremor of rage ran through her. "Ohh, I hate you! I hate you!" She ran past her father.

Tom glared after her. "I'm sorry. We sure put a damper on your night. Best thing I can do for you is get myself out of here."

"You're welcome to stay, Tom."

"I know that, Zoe, but I want to get outside. I got to do somethin' about her, an' right now all I can think of is beatin' her to death."

Angela awakened with puffy eyes, humiliation and resentment hot in her breast. She opened her door and listened. Mammy padded toward Adam's room with a breakfast tray. From below she heard Zoe's voice and Rod's, animated and happy. Outside Rosebud shouted to another man. He, too, sounded happy. She shut the door, crying bitter tears of self-pity. She cried softly at first, then louder. No one came. No one asked how she was or comforted her noisy tears.

By noon she was certain no one was going to bother about her. They would never let Adam go without two meals. Everyone in the house would have been beating a path to his room trying to tempt him with delicacies.

Zoe had never really cared. Angela could see that now. Right from the beginning Zoe had befriended Ullah only for Adam's sake, and later she had gotten stuck with Angela. Even Tom didn't want her. He seldom came to see her, and then he never really wanted to talk to her or take her places. And Adam had made it clear that he wanted no part of her.

Miserable and building a convincingly sad case, Angela took on the air of an abandoned heroine. Sentimentally she stroked Ullah's tattered box of treasures Tom had given her on her fifteenth birthday. She ran her finger over the box, imagining it to be something of great value.

Angela had no clear picture of Ullah. It was easy to make her mother beautiful by Angela's standards, make her white, whiter than Zoe, make her rich and powerful. Angela imagined her so seductive that all men, even Adam, had loved her.

Angela opened the box and took from it Ullah's colored pebbles and shells. Each one was a gem. A ruby sparkled in the palm of Angela's hand next to a sapphire and an emerald. Jade jostled carnehan and moonstone. Diamonds sparkled and winked next to onyx. For a long time she played, making the stones and shells what she wished they were.

Then she took out the letter from Zoe. It was dog-eared and yellowed. Angela read it as she had so many other times. This time she imagined Zoe was a poor old woman thanking Ullah for permitting her, a woman fallen from grace, to attend her barbecue on Saturday.

But Angela had drawn her game out too long. The image wouldn't hold. She kept seeing Zoe's shocked face last night when Tom dragged her into the parlor to be humiliated and judged. She saw the clay doll Ullah had saved from her own childhood. Viciously Angela tried to stab her hatpins into the doll, wanting it to be Zoe, and Tom and Rod and Adam.

Around Angela were all the tawdry, simple things that had meant so much to her mother. To Angela the gems no longer glittered or promised dreams of an impossible future. They were dirty little stones anyone could pick up on the street or beach. The letter was an ordinary acceptance note. Angela ripped it in half, then shredded the paper into jagged pieces. She ground it into the floor, hating the sight of it.