The Slave Master's Son (19 page)

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CHAPTER 17

“I see,” Gayle said as she wiped the tears from her face. “I’ve received nothing but bad news since my husband departed,” she said to her mother who patted her hand. “How could he do this to me?” She sobbed into her shaking hands.

“Gayle, Sweetie, I don’t know. I don’t know why men do things like this. I believe it’s the nature of the beast,” Mrs. Douglass explained.

“He left me for a Nigger!” Gayle screamed. She snatched off her wedding band and threw it across the room.

“Gayle, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Those women flash themselves. They’re loose and seduce our men with their wildness. She’s more to blame than he.”

“So, they’ve run off together with their ghastly half-breed offspring.” Gayle looked away with disgust. “He didn’t believe me when I told him I was pregnant. He was acting oddly. The doctor confirmed I’m not, and now, now I have nothing, Mama. He probably believes I was barren. Maybe I’m…” Gayle continued to cry while her mother rocked her solidly in her arms.

“He should be here any minute,” Gayle’s mother assured. I heard his train would be here soon. I tried to contact Master Stewart but he refused to reveal any information. I’m going to leave now so that you may have time alone with him.” She hugged her daughter once more and got into the wagon that waited for her outside of the house.

Gayle looked around the house, frantically wringing her hands nervously. She walked into the bedroom. She moved her light pink, thick bodice and petticoat to the side, causing a slight rustling noise as she sat down on the circular leather vanity stool. Gayle looked at herself in the mirror carefully, examining her freckles, the beauty mark on her neck, her collar bones and down to her plump, heaving porcelain cleavage. She squinted her hazel eyes, causing their color to darken beneath her array of lashes. Gayle picked up her scarlet lipstick and outlined the poutiness of her mouth.

Then she sat. She waited. She fought tears. Her head quickly turned once she heard footsteps on the porch forty-three minutes later. The footsteps were heavy, confident, and ready. They were familiar. She braced herself and forced a smile. The front door swung open followed by a pause. Gayle listened. She heard him breathing. He was silently searching. His footsteps rounded the corner, becoming louder. He stood outside of the cracked bedroom door, his shadow blocking part of the light. Slowly, the door opened, exposing the tall dark outline of John.

His hat was tipped to the side and the smell of cedar and pipe smoke suddenly encompassed the room. John’s iridescent blue eyes scanned her as if seeing her for the first time. He gulped and rubbed his jawbone. He slowly walked towards her, then past her, pulling out a drawer and slowly removing garments and ammunition. Gayle’s mouth parted. She licked her top lip as she surveyed his body. John wore a black, smooth double breasted jacket. His pants were tan and tailored. His hair, the long front locks he was notorious for having, was cut. John’s raven hair was neatly coiffed and he was clean shaven, exposing a deep cleft in his chin and prominent right cheek dimple. He nonchalantly maneuvered his belongings into a box, robotically.

“John,” Gayle said breathlessly. She stood up and walked towards him. He stopped moving but still looked straight ahead. “John, we need to talk.” Gayle said as she delicately placed her hand on his wrist. John looked down at her hand and slowly moved his arm away.

“About what?” he asked as he grabbed a box of bullets and tossed them into the box.

“Why did you lie to me? You told me you were going hunting. You know that I love you. You know that you and that slave girl aren’t really married! Do you know how much you’ve hurt me?” Gayle shuttered. Her lips began to tremble as she held herself tightly. John looked over at Gayle and briefly studied her before speaking.

“Gayle, I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you. I told you already though, before we got married, that I wasn’t interested in being married to you. Gayle, I can’t force it or pretend or go through the motions like your father, my father, and so many other people that we know. We only get one round and I want to use mine wisely.” He neatly folded a linen shirt and put it into the box.

“I’m not going through the motions, John! I really do love you. I’m in love with you!” Gayle threw herself into his arms. “Every evening you were gone, I slept with your jacket. It smells like you. I cried every single night once I realized you weren’t coming back. John, give us a try, just try!” Gayle pleaded. John looked at Gayle sternly.

“I’d be doing you a grave disservice and wasting both of our time. I – don’t – want – you,” John spoke stiffly.

“What does she have that I don’t?” Gayle insisted as she took a step back from him. “What could an immoral, dirty, wretched, wild, bastard Nigger have that I can’t give you?” Gayle’s face grew flush with shades of pink, red, and cinnamon as the blood in her body pumped twice as hard. John sucked his teeth, cocked his head to the side, and plopped onto the edge of the bed.

“You say those ugly things because you’re hurt. I’ve never heard you say such filthy words. It makes you look bad, Gayle. Anyway, there’s no competition. You could never be her, and she could never be you. You two are like day and night. Nothing I say is going to make you understand. You’re troubled deep in your heart. You blame me for it all when I was nothing less than honest and upfront with you. I still apologize. I understand that you believe that you love me, so I imagine it must be quite painful. Regardless, she’s who I want. We’re together, we have a family now. I can’t.”

Gayle raced towards John and smacked him across the face as hard as she could muster. She breathed heavily and moved quickly back from him, pressing her back against the wall as her bosom heaved. John rubbed his jaw while he looked down at the floor. He slowly stood up and continued to pack.

“That’s it?” Gayle asked frantically. “You’re just going to pack your things and go back to her? I hit you, and you just ignore me. I wish she were dead! I hate her!” Gayle yelled at the top of her lungs. “I wish she and your bastard…” John turned and grabbed her by her neck. Gayle’s hazel eyes bulged as she scraped at his long, thick fingers which were wrapped compactly around her thin, fragile collar. She gasped, exposing the tip of her wet, pink tongue. John unhurriedly released her. She fell to her knees coughing. John spoke calmly as he finished packing.

“You can call me whatever you want. You can say whatever you want about her. She and I are both adults. We can handle it. However, don’t you ever, and I mean ever, call my son a bastard again. Gayle, I don’t beat up on women. I’ve never hit a woman in my life. You’ve brought shame on me with your unruly tongue. Watch what you say and what you do. I would’ve done whatever I could for you, short of being your husband. There are plenty of men who would’ve loved to have you as their spouse, men similar to me with similar position. I was prepared to introduce you to any one of them, but with this behavior, I couldn’t subject a rabid dog to you. You’ve shown your true colors. You’re a controlling, manipulative, disturbing, and arrogant woman. No wonder your father runs around weekly with whores from the brothel. You’re just like your mother,” John sneered as he stepped over her weak, slumped body, taking his box in tow.

Gayle jumped as she heard the front door slam. She marinated in her own tears and anger for hours on end. The sun had set, and the moon had taken its station. She stayed there until the sun returned, glowing red and fire-struck with the warmth of Hell and the softness of Heaven.

* * *

“When you said you’d be in and out, I see you meant it,” Mary said as she hugged John.

“Yes, I have to get back home to Hannah and the baby. I’ve only been gone for a few days, and I already miss her,” he said.

“She sent me some letters,” Mary said proudly as she took John’s plate away from the table. John looked around his father’s house. It felt strange having less people. Usually his childhood home was bustling with activity. Some of the slaves remained, but they were now paid a wage. John smiled.

“Yeah, when I come home from work she usually has a new letter for you that she wants me to have delivered. I hope that you can come visit soon,” John said. Mary smiled weakly.

“I’d like that. I want to give you two – well, you three – some time alone now, though.” She turned away and began to wash the dishes. John stood up and stretched. He gathered the second box from his old bedroom and reviewed the divorce papers.

“I’m divorcing Gayle, Mary. This hasn’t come without consequences. I didn’t even have to. I offered her money to help her although at this point the mere sight of her sickens me.” He bit his bottom lip.

“She don’t know what she does,” Mary said flatly as she worked her hardened hands along the sides of the tea cup with water. “Feelin’s like she got makes people do some foolish things – sometimes harmful.”

“Yes, I know.” John walked up to Mary and hugged her, kissing her cheek. “Please tell my father to get hold of me as soon as he can. I didn’t know he was gone for the day. I must be on my way.” He kissed Mary’s cheek once more before departing to the train station.

* * *

John busted through the door of his home with boxes, a long-stem red rose, and a desire to embrace Hannah. His eyes quickly scanned the perimeter. The silence was deafening.

“Hannah! Sweetheart, I’m home!” he smiled as he placed the boxes down. He walked into the kitchen. John’s grin quickly faded. He looked at the stagnant water in the sink. He covered his nose as he made his way towards the trashcan, peering inside to see rotten fruit skins and uncooked meat. The stench made his eyes water. He looked on the kitchen counter and saw a half-sliced onion, dried-out lemon wedges, and a fork with caked-on food.

“Hannah!” John screamed out as he raced up the steps, dropping the flower behind him. Petals slowly flowed downward, resting like crimson snowflakes, leaving a bread crumb trail of his journey. He ran into his son’s bedroom to find the crib empty. John raced frantically into his bedroom. The lemon-colored sheets were disheveled and intertwined with two quilts, in a massive embroidered knot. The cherry wood nightstand was turned on its side, the contents spilled out into a colorful mess of spools of red and gold thread, a spray of sharp needles, and balls of loose yarn. A broken lamp lay near the long window, and the new burgundy curtains were half-torn, exposing a partial skyline on a beautiful day. John raced down the steps, falling midway. He stood up quickly and galloped out the front door. The wind whipped his face as his legs glided without him down the pavement. He frantically bumped into people.

“Hey! Watch it!” yelled an angry fifty-year-old Englishman holding a bag of bread. John couldn’t catch his breath. He began to cough, his lungs filling with air then releasing quickly, his chest heaving in uneven patterns causing a shooting pain to cross by his heart like a hot dagger. He grabbed his shirt. Sweat ran profusely down his face as if it were raining. The salty perspiration mixed in with the silvery tears of anger that coated his cheeks. John bust into the police precinct. He heaved his tall body in strange jarred movements as he continued to grip his shirt. His heart was pounding at an alarming speed. Two police officers stood up and raced in his direction.

“You OK, partner?” one asked as he ushered John to a long, wooden bench. John’s stark-white skin was clammy. All of the blood from his body seemed to be moving frenetically to and from his heart valves. His complexion began to take on a blue cast.

“My,” John hesitated, “my housekeeper is missing – and her son.” The two police officers looked at each other before speaking.

“OK, when was the last time you saw her?” asked one of the officers as he sat down next to him.

“Five nights ago. I went away on business,” John explained.

“Is it possible she just quit?” asked one of the officers with a slight grin. John bit his tongue and restrained himself.

“No. That’s impossible. There’s evidence of a struggle – in her bedroom. She stayed in my house.” John looked at him, trying desperately to read the officer’s mind.

“What’s your name?” One officer asked while pulling out a piece of paper.

“John – John Stewart.” John stood up straight. The air around him was thick. The slight smell of cigars and hot coffee filled the air. His heart began to beat more normally now, however, a deep anger was conceived and growing rapidly from the pit of his abdomen. He towered over the two officers who quickly took a defensive stance.

“Are you two going to help me find her or not?” John asked dryly, taking out handkerchief and wiping his brow.