Part 22 (1/2)

On Emily's sixteenth birthday the old women invited Joseph and Narcisse to a celebration in her honor. Joseph had just returned from New Orleans, and in a particularly good mood. He brought all of them gifts, not just Emily. He gave Elisabeth a black-and-red fan that opened and closed with an impressive snap. For Suzette he brought a tatted lace handkerchief, so snowy white and fine that she kept it folded in her drawer, taking it out only to run her fingers gently over the fabric or stare at it in wonder. He presented four tins of high-quality snuff to Philomene. The boys got spurs, a slingshot, and a harmonica, according to age.

Joseph saved Emily's present for last, pulling a flat wrapped package out of his storage sack. He handed it to her without any of his usual joking. He simply said, ”For you, mademoiselle.” Emily felt him watching her, as did everyone else in the room. She happily unfolded the brown paper and lifted the top from the slim box. Inside was a pair of fine black lace gloves, not the usual peppermint candy he always brought. She knew it was a signal that she had grown up in his eyes at last.

From that day forward Joseph's visits to Philomene's house took on a different tone, and he came more often alone. Joseph seemed hard-pressed to pull his eyes away from Emily's dimples or the fluttering of her hands. In those early days of their start-and-stop courts.h.i.+p, Joseph spent half his time in New Orleans and half at the store he had opened in Grant Parish. Whenever he returned he came calling to Philomene's cabin, bringing fresh stories of a world beyond Cane River.

As far as her mother knew, Emily and Joseph were never alone. Philomene doubled her chaperone efforts when Joseph officially came calling, but Emily became especially clever at taking her alone walks, out of the sight of nosy younger brothers and prying women. A tangle of spa.r.s.e woods dotted the path to a small abandoned cotton house a brisk twenty-minute walk from the cabin, and whenever they could arrange it, Emily slipped away to meet Joseph alone there. By then his pet name for her was Mademoiselle 't.i.te. Their talking quickly gave way to touching.

Everything about Joseph, his wiry build and careless walk, the sharpness of his nose, the thick flow of his hair, thrilled Emily, but his ears were her weakness. Joseph told her once that he had gotten into fistfights as a boy in France, defending the size and shape of his ears, unwilling to take the teasing. They stood out from his face at an a.s.sertive angle, brash and uncompromising in the same way Joseph was. Emily liked to trace the bold sweep of those ears with the tip of her finger, making him laugh, and then he would follow the small arc of hers with his blunt hand, his hazel eyes and spare lips working together to produce a devilish smile.

Bringing that smile into being was Emily's yardstick of her own happiness. His thick mustache was like a waterfall, covering his top lip completely, and the stiff hairs p.r.i.c.kled when they kissed. Joseph showed her the special comb he had purchased for his whiskers, an indulgence for such a frugal man. He spent more time combing, cutting, and shaping that mustache than he did the sandy hair he kept trimmed short on the top of his head. The rest of his face he kept clean-shaven. His cheeks were full for such a thin man, and because the underlying bone structure was high, a deep shadow played constantly between his ear and his mouth. An inner amus.e.m.e.nt crackled in his deep-set eyes, almost overshadowed by thick, wayward eyebrows that would have startled and overwhelmed his face had they not been muted by their sandy brown paleness.

Emily's skin was smoother and more fair than Joseph's, because she always took such care to cover herself against the danger of the darkening rays of the sun, and he was an outdoorsman. Her hair was as straight, her nose as thin, her penmans.h.i.+p hand straighter and stronger. Everyone told her she was beautiful, had been telling her that since before she could understand their words. They also told her she was better, meant for better things. But she was colored and Joseph was white, and to most those were the defining facts that mattered. In the cotton house there were no such discussions, no such limitations.

After the initial upheaval, those ancient women Emily came from took the news of her impending motherhood in stride. Their presence had coc.o.o.ned her for as long as she could remember, and although their disappointment at the beginning stung, they helped her without blame in every way they knew how through the carrying and delivery. By the time little Angelite arrived, the baby was absorbed seamlessly into the cabin as if she belonged to all of them.

Each of the elders was eager to demonstrate her mother cures. When a wasp stung Angelite, Philomene applied tobacco juice and the swelling went down. When Suzette visited, she would hold the baby and rock for hours, using her finger to rub Angelite's gums, giving the little girl some relief from the violation of her emerging teeth. Once, as Emily helplessly watched Angelite struggle for air, her great-grandmother Elisabeth fried down a piece of mutton, added turpentine and salve to the suet, soaked a piece of flannel in the fat, and put the warm concoction on the baby's chest until her breathing eased. Occasionally the women disagreed among themselves about the most effective remedy for this cough or that fever, and Emily would just wait for the winning strategy to emerge. As if she had not helped to move four younger brothers from diapers to long pants, or had not taken care of the little sister who struggled to live in that first year of her life before giving up the fight.

It was comforting to have so much knowledge at her disposal, always an extra set of hands when needed, especially with Joseph gone so often.

Joseph still lived across the river in the back of his store, and Emily's place was on Philomene's farm, even after Angelite was born. She rose before dawn every morning, sometimes leaving the baby with Elisabeth, sometimes carrying Angelite with her for the day, and crossed the river to help Joseph. She felt daring, adventurous, venturing out beyond Cane River and across the Red River into an entirely different parish.

Emily carried herself above the side glances and the sly whispers. Insatiable tongues told stories about the Frenchman and the quadroon, endlessly cataloging what was wrong, what was unnatural, about the two of them being together. It wasn't the appearance of the child that sparked such heated interest from the people in the woods and in the town; it was Joseph's dogged insistence on including both Emily and Angelite in his talk, in his thinking, in his plans.

30.

”T hese children are yours,” Philomene said, the flushed skin of her face stretched taut and her eyes narrowed. Narcisse had reached a dangerous age, an age when men's thoughts turned to their own mortality, when they examined all they had managed to build in a lifetime of work and could feel only the urgency of where it would go when they were dead. By law he needed legitimate children to pa.s.s his inheritance to. If his children had been white, he could adopt them. If Philomene had been white, he could have married her. It was an impossible situation for a man obsessed with heirs. Philomene had seen his mind working the problem for some time, even as he supported and defended his colored family. ”You may be getting yourself ready to walk on to something new, but that doesn't change you being the father.” hese children are yours,” Philomene said, the flushed skin of her face stretched taut and her eyes narrowed. Narcisse had reached a dangerous age, an age when men's thoughts turned to their own mortality, when they examined all they had managed to build in a lifetime of work and could feel only the urgency of where it would go when they were dead. By law he needed legitimate children to pa.s.s his inheritance to. If his children had been white, he could adopt them. If Philomene had been white, he could have married her. It was an impossible situation for a man obsessed with heirs. Philomene had seen his mind working the problem for some time, even as he supported and defended his colored family. ”You may be getting yourself ready to walk on to something new, but that doesn't change you being the father.”

Philomene and Narcisse sized each other up, like a pair of old fighting c.o.c.ks preparing to spar one last time. They were especially careful, either capable of drawing first blood, each searching for the best possible opening.

Philomene looked with uncompromising eyes at the man grown soft around the middle, deep lines etching his forehead. Getting ready to leave her after twenty years and seven children, two lost in infancy. Philomene had to give him due credit. He still kept himself clean and neat, and his beard was recently trimmed with a precision and patience reserved for the very rich or the very vain. The truth of the matter was that he had really left her the year before. They had just not spoken of it.

The power she exercised over him for years had diminished, until what they held between them now was mostly habit and old scars. And their children.

As soon as Philomene heard he was to have a child by Clemmie Larioux, she knew her time had run out, the spell broken. It hadn't taken long for the news to travel the byways of Cane River that Narcisse had gone back to white. Clemmie had been safely delivered of his white child, a girl. By all accounts Clemmie was poor white trash living in the piney woods hill country, probably another shadow union for Narcisse. Philomene was sure he would marry again, if he proved to himself he could produce a legitimate male heir by a more respectable woman.

It always seemed to come to this. No matter what happened early in their lives, whatever choices these Frenchmen made in their youth, in the end the need for a legitimate heir rea.s.serted itself, all the stronger for being ignored. The need became as singular and focused as their original l.u.s.t had been. There was no way around it. The best Philomene could hope to do now was protect her children from indifference and desertion.

Narcisse squared off. ”I know they're my children,” he said. ”When have I ever turned my back? You've lived a good life from it, too. Both Emily and Eugene can read. I didn't have to do that. Nick, Henry, and Joseph will get their turn. Not one has ever gone hungry. They hold their heads up, dress better than most. You've lived in the same house for over ten years, your only task to raise them. I saw to that.”

”My only task?” Philomene's tone was strained, but she kept her voice steady and didn't allow him to bait her. She had to think clearly. There was much more at stake than her pride. Her family depended on her to manage the situation. ”You think I don't know you're ready to go?” she said. ”That I don't know about Clemmie?”

”Mademoiselle Clemensieu to you,” Narcisse snapped. ”She's a white lady. You show her respect.” He eased back immediately, seeming to think better of attack. ”All these years gone, years with you saying I could only have children by you. I love each of my children, and I'll do right by them. I need an heir. It's time to take care of my line, get back to my own kind.”

”You will do whatever pleases you,” Philomene said. ”But you still have these five children, and a grandchild. They are your line, too. Some of them barely out of short pants, some not walking yet. They have needs.” She paused and her eyes narrowed, judging the timing. ”And another on the way.”

Narcisse hit her, a sudden blow to her face with his closed fist. She hadn't seen it coming. It happened so swiftly that Philomene registered the flat, hollow sound before the pain. She stayed where she was, staring at him, not even bringing hand to face to touch her swelling jaw. No more glimpsings could protect her now. They stood facing one another, both breathing hard.

”You'll say anything now to keep me from going,” Narcisse said. ”How do I know there really is another child? It won't change my plans.”

Philomene stood erect, saying nothing, and a long moment pa.s.sed.

Narcisse broke the silence first, a compromising quality to his softened tone. ”I'll still give you something from time to time.”

”Something and time to time are not what I'm looking for,” Philomene said. ”You have plenty of land, and we deserve some of it to build our own place. And a stake to get us started. A cow, a horse, and some chickens. We can work the place ourselves, while you move on to your legitimate heirs.” She spat out the last as if it were blood collecting in her mouth.

In spite of the growing redness, she kept her face steady and unyielding, and she stared directly into Narcisse's eyes. He glared back at her, a look mixed with anger and contempt. This was her last stand with him. They both knew it.

”I'll give you whatever I have a mind to give you, and nothing more,” Narcisse said. ”You'd better keep a civil tongue. I don't know who you think you are, making demands, hanging on beyond your time. You think you can steal all of these years from me without consequence, making me believe I could never have white children, and then try to tell me what I have to do for you?” His face had turned a dark, mottled color, and there was an angry twitch to his mouth as he talked. ”You think you are so high and mighty that you can make up anything else, and I'll believe what you say? I gave you a decent life. A slave, and I treated you better than you had any right to expect.”

Philomene silently stood her ground. She knew this man, and if anything could influence him, it would be the dawning acceptance that there would be another child. The last few months had not all been tight silences, absences, or arguments, especially after the death of their little Josephina.

”I should have known all along you didn't have the power to see into the future,” Narcisse said. ”All these years thinking you could find out about Bet through glimpsing, and you're as blind to that as anything else that hasn't happened yet.”

”Bet?” Philomene's voice faltered. She had no idea where they were headed as the familiar direction of their confrontation lurched off course. Narcisse never talked about Bet and Thany, and she never talked about Clement. It was one of their wordless agreements. Her daughters had been dead for almost twenty years. She still sometimes went alone to visit the site where Bet and Thany had been buried in their single grave. A stunted willow tree grew over the lonely spot on what used to be Ferrier's farm.

”You hold yourself above other people with your glimpsings,” Narcisse went on. ”You tricked me, but the whole time you had no idea that your daughter was just a few miles away. You're not as clever as you think.”

”What are you saying, Narcisse?” There was no bite left in Philomene's words, no strategy, no calculation, no demand.

Narcisse hesitated. ”Bet is alive,” he said. ”She didn't die in the yellow fever epidemic. Thany couldn't recover after the fever, but Bet was stronger, and she fought harder.”

Philomene backed away from Narcisse, one wobbly step and then two.

”Oreline had just taken sick and couldn't leave her bed. I was the only healthy one still able to move around on Ferrier's farm by then. A boy came from my plantation, just minutes after I watched Thany die. I had been gone for two days, and they sent him because they were worried. Bet was sick, but still fighting, so I sent her away with the boy to one of my farms downriver. There was a slave woman there, Aunt Sarah, a good nurse. I was so tired already, and I hadn't been able to save Thany. I thought she could look after the baby better than I could, while I stayed on with you and Oreline. It seemed the best course at the time.”

Narcisse spoke in a monotone, as if the too long h.o.a.rding of the story had ground down all of the contours. ”After a few days, Oreline was getting better. She only had a mild case, and even you were starting to come around a little, but it was clear you couldn't take care of a baby in your condition. You could barely lift your head. Even after your delirium pa.s.sed, you were so weak that you didn't have any idea what was going on around you. I just left things the way they were, and said both babies had died. I'm not sure why. Oreline wasn't part of it.”

Narcisse found his way to the moonlight chair and slumped into it. ”I thought it was better to wait and see whether Bet recovered before telling you any different. A family down on my place raised her as Elisabeth, without knowing any of this. She didn't move after freedom. She married a boy down there.”

Philomene barely breathed. All she could think of was the terrible loneliness she had felt after the yellow fever, when she woke up to find everyone in her world gone, a loneliness so deep that she thought she would die from it. Even the attentions of Narcisse Fredieu seemed preferable to that. Bet, alive? She heard a raw, low guttural sound that seemed to have neither beginning nor end, but when she looked past Narcisse to find the source, she found it came from her. She couldn't stop.

Narcisse stared at her uncertainly. He looked as if he were waiting for something more. She had seen the expression before, whenever they talked of the glimpsings. Narcisse seemed almost contrite to Philomene, his face a curious ma.s.s of slits and folds and whiskers. He struck her as odd and ridiculous, and she started to laugh, great gulping laughs, so deep that she could hardly catch her breath. The longer she laughed, the more alarmed Narcisse looked, but he kept his distance across the room. At some point she couldn't remember why she was laughing, and she stopped. Silence hugged each corner of the room like a shroud.

”Philomene, listen to me. I have land near where Bet is living, down at the mouth of Cane River, near the Grant-Natchitoches Parish border. I've always intended to deed you that piece of land, and you can raise the children there. Bet will be just a few minutes away. It's not too late to get to know her.”