Darkest Hour (5 page)

"I'll bring you a box and some sand," Henry said.

"Thank you, Henry," Mamma said, and turned to me, waving her finger. "But you'll have to be in charge of keeping the sand clean," she advised.

"I will, Mamma. I promise."

Eugenia brightened with excitement when I brought Cotton in to her. I sat on her bed and told her all about school, the lesson in reading Miss Walker had given me, and the sounds I was already able to read and pronounce. While I went on and on about my day, Eugenia played with Cotton, teasing her with string and then tickling her stomach. When I saw how much pleasure my little sister was getting, I wondered why Mamma and Papa never thought to give her a pet of her own.

Suddenly, Eugenia started to sneeze and wheeze the way she often did just before she had one of her seizures. Frightened, I called for Mamma, who rushed in with Louella at her side. I took Cotton in my arms while Mamma and Louella worked on Eugenia. The result was Doctor Cory had to be called for her.

When the doctor left, Mamma came to my room. I was sitting in the corner with Cotton, still terrified from what had happened. It appeared to reinforce Emily's accusations: I was bringing bad luck to everyone.

"I'm sorry, Mamma," I said quickly. She smiled at me.

"It wasn't your fault, Lillian honey, but Doctor Cory thinks Eugenia might be allergic to cats and that just makes her problems worse. I'm afraid you can't keep the kitten in the house after all. Henry will find a nice little home for her in the barn and you can visit her there whenever you want."

I nodded.

"He's waiting outside. You can bring her down to him now and put her in her new home, okay?"

"Okay, Mamma," I said, and went out. Henry and I set up Cotton's box in a corner near the first cow stall. In the days that followed, I would bring Cotton to Eugenia's window so she could see her. She would press her little face up against her window and smile at my kitten. It made me feel horrible that she couldn't touch Cotton. No matter what unfair things happened to me, none of them seemed as terrible as the unfair things that were happening to my little sister.

Even if there were such things as good luck and bad luck, I thought, why would God use me to punish a little girl as sweet as Eugenia? Emily couldn't be right; she just couldn't, I thought. It was the way I began my nightly prayers.

"Dear Lord. Please make my sister Emily wrong. Please."

In the weeks that passed, I looked forward to school so much that I hated when the weekends came. What I did was establish a little one-room school of my own for me and Eugenia, just as I had promised. We had our own small blackboard and chalk and I had my own primary reader. I spent hours and hours teaching Eugenia the things I had learned, and even though she was too young to begin school, she showed remarkable patience and began to learn, too.

Despite her debilitating illness, Eugenia was a very cheerful little girl who took delight in the simplest of things: the song of a lark, the burst of blossoms on the magnolia trees, or simply the colors of the sky that changed from azure to the delicate blue of a robin's egg. She would sit in her window seat and gaze out at the world like a traveler from another planet taken on a tour of earth and being shown something different every day. Eugenia had a wonderful way of looking out that window and being able to see something novel in the same scene each time she gazed.

"Look at the elephant, Lillian," she would say, and point to a twisted cedar branch that did indeed resemble the trunk of an elephant.

"Maybe you'll be an artist when you grow up," I told her and even suggested to Mamma that she buy Eugenia real paintbrushes and paint. She laughed and did go as far as to buy her crayons and coloring books, but whenever I talked to Mamma about Eugenia's future, Mamma would grow very quiet and then withdraw to play her spinet or read her books.

Naturally, Emily criticized everything I did with Eugenia, and especially mocked our play school in Eugenia's room.

"She doesn't understand anything you're doing and she'll never really go to school. It's a waste of time," she said.

"No, it's not, and she will go to school."

"She has trouble taking walks around the house," Emily said confidently. "Can you imagine her even walking to the end of our driveway?"

"Henry will take her in the wagon," I insisted.

"Papa can't let the wagon and horses be used like that twice a day, every day; and besides, Henry has his work here," Emily happily pointed out.

I tried to ignore what she said, even though in my heart I knew she was probably right.

My own work in school improved so quickly, Miss Walker made an example of me to the other students. Almost every day, I was running up the driveway ahead of Emily to show Mamma my papers with the little stars on them. At dinner Mamma would bring them out to show Papa and he would gaze down at the papers and chew his food and nod. I decided to pin all my Excellents and Very Goods up on Eugenia's wall. She took as much pride and joy in them as I did.

By the middle of November of my first school year, Miss Walker was giving me more and more responsibility. Just like Emily, I was helping other students to learn the things I had learned quickly. Emily was very severe with the students she had to tutor in class, complaining about them if they didn't pay attention. Many had to sit in the corner with the dunce's cap on because of something Emily told Miss Walker. She was very unpopular with the rest of the students in the school, but Miss Walker appeared to be pleased about that. She could turn her back or leave the room and know confidently that Emily would be reliable and no one would misbehave in front of her. Besides, Emily didn't mind being unpopular. She enjoyed the power and the authority and told me time after time there was no one at the school she cared to be friends with anyway.

One day, after she had blamed Niles Thompson for a spitball thrown at Charlie Gordon, Miss Walker told Niles to sit in the corner. He protested his innocence, but Emily was firm in her accusation.

"I saw him do it, Miss Walker," she said with her steely eyes fixed firmly on Niles.

"That's a lie. She's lying," Niles protested. He looked to me and I stood up.

"Miss Walker, Niles didn't throw the spitball," I said, contradicting Emily. Emily's face turned beet red and her nostrils widened like a bull about to snort.

"Are you absolutely positive it was Niles, Emily?" Miss Walker asked her.

"Yes, Miss Walker. Lillian's just saying that because she likes Niles," she replied coolly. "They practically hold hands when they walk to and from school."

Now it was my turn to turn red. All the boys in school smiled and some of the girls giggled.

"That's not true," I cried. "I . . ."

"If Niles didn't throw the spitball, Lillian, then who did?" Emily demanded, her hands on her hips. I gazed at Jimmie Turner, who had thrown it. He looked away quickly. I couldn't tattle on him so I just shook my head.

"All right," Miss Walker said. She glared at the class until everyone looked down at his desk. "That's enough." She looked at Niles. "Did you throw the spitball, Niles?"

"No ma'am," he said.

"You haven't been in trouble before, Niles, so I'm going to take your word this time, but if I see any spitballs on the floor at the end of the day, all the boys in this room will be staying a half hour after school. Is that clear?"

No one spoke. When the school day ended, we filed out quietly and Niles approached me.

"Thanks for standing up for me," he muttered. "I don't know how she can be your sister," he added angrily, glaring at Emily.

"I'm not her sister," Emily happily replied. "She's an orphan we took in years ago." She said it loud enough for all the children to hear. Everyone looked at me.

"No, I'm not," I cried.

"Of course she is. Her mother died in childbirth and we had to take her in," she said. Then she narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to add, "You're a guest in my house; you will always be just a guest. Whatever my parents give you, they give you as a handout. Just like to a beggar," she said, and turned triumphantly to the crowd that had gathered around us.

Afraid I would break out in tears, I ran off. I ran as far as I could. When I stopped, I did cry. I cried all the way home. Mamma was furious with Emily for what she had done and was waiting for her in the doorway when she appeared.

"You're the oldest, Emily. You're supposed to have the most sense," Mamma told her. "I'm very disappointed in you and the Captain's not going to be happy when he hears about this."

Emily glared hatefully at me and charged up the stairway to her room. When Papa came in, Mamma told him what Emily had done and he did give her a bawling out. She was very quiet at dinner and refused to look my way.

At school the next day, I saw many of the children whispering about me. Emily didn't say anything to anyone in front of me anymore, but I was sure she was whispering things to some of them all the time. I tried not to let this stop me from learning and enjoying school, but it was as if a black cloud appeared over my head each morning and traveled with me all the way to school.

But Emily wasn't satisfied by just making me feel uncomfortable and freakish in front of my classmates. I had infuriated her when I had contradicted her about Niles Thompson and the spitball and she was determined to punish me in little ways for as long as she could. I tried to stay away from her and lag behind or rush ahead when we walked to school, and I did my best to avoid her all day.

I complained to Eugenia about her, and my little sister listened sympathetically, but we both seemed to know that Emily would be Emily and there was no way to change her or get her to stop doing and saying hateful things. We tolerated her just the way we would tolerate bad weather. We waited for it to pass.

Only once did Emily succeed in bringing both Eugenia and me to tears at the same time. And for that I vowed I would never forgive her.

3

Even though Cotton was unable to come into the house ever since that dreadful day when Eugenia had such a terrible allergic reaction, our cat seemed to have sensed the love and affection Eugenia had for her. Almost every afternoon, after the sun on its journey west- had made its way over our big house, Cotton would come sauntering along and find herself a soft patch of grass beneath Eugenia's window to sprawl over and soak up the warmth. She would lie there purring contentedly and gaze up at Eugenia, who sat on her window seat and spoke to her through the glass. Eugenia was just as excited to tell me about Cotton as I was to tell her about school.

Sometimes, Cotton was still there when I arrived: a snow-like patch of white snuggle in a bed of emerald. I was always afraid she would grow gray and dirty and look like the other cats that lived outside and found their sanctuaries through holes in the stone foundations or in the dark corners of our toolshed and smokehouse. Her milk-white fur would show every spot of dirt and grime, but Cotton was one of those cats who couldn't tolerate a spot of dust on her. She would spend hours and hours licking and washing, caressing her paws and her stomach with her pink tongue, her eyes closed as she worked methodically in long strokes.

Cotton had grown quickly into a muscular, sleek cat with eyes that shimmered like diamonds. Henry favored her more than any of the animals on the plantation and frequently fed her a raw egg, which he said was the reason why her coat was always so rich and shiny.

"She's already the most feared hunter of the bunch," he told me. "Why, I seen her chase a mouse's shadow until she found the mouse."

When Eugenia and I sat in her window seat and talked for hours after school or I read to her, we would both stop to take note of Cotton's comings and goings, but it wasn't her hunting prowess that made her stand out for us. It was the way she would promenade over the grounds of the plantation, moving with an air of arrogance that seemed to say, "I know I'm the most beautiful cat here and you all better remember." Eugenia and I would laugh, and Cotton, who surely heard us, would pause and throw a gaze our way before ambling on to check one of her haunts.

Instead of a collar, we fastened one of Eugenia's pink hair ribbons around Cotton's neck. At first she tried to scratch it off, but in time, she grew used to it and kept it as clean as she kept her fur. It got so our conversations with Mamma and Papa, Louella and the other house servants, as well as with Emily, were always filled with Cotton stories.

After school one gray and stormy day, I came running up the driveway afraid that I wouldn't beat out the downpour that was hovering in the shoulders of the bruised and angry-looking clouds above. I even outran Emily, who walked with her eyes half closed, her mouth sewn so tightly shut it made her thin lips white in the corners. I knew that something I had done or something that had happened that day at school had annoyed and angered her. I thought it might have been the fuss Miss Walker had made over how well I had completed my writing lesson. Whatever was bothering her made her lean frame swell so that her shoulders were hoisted, making her look like a large crow. I wanted to avoid her and her sharp tongue that would spit words designed to cut into my heart.

The gravel flew out from beneath my feet as I dashed up the remaining one hundred or so yards to the front door. Still gasping, I charged into the house, eager to show Eugenia my first written sentences with the word "Excellent" scribbled in bright red ink at the top of the page. I had it clasped in my little fist, waving it in the air like the flag of the Confederacy snapping in the wind of battle against the Yankees depicted in some of our paintings. My feet slapped down on the corridor floor as I jogged my way to Eugenia's room and burst in excitedly.

But I took one look at her and my joy quickly subsided, the air rushing out of my lungs as quickly as the air escaped from a punctured balloon. Eugenia had obviously been crying; her face was still streaked with fresh tears rippling down her cheeks and dripping from her chin.

"What's wrong, Eugenia? Why are you crying?" I asked, grimacing in anticipation of her sad reply. "Does something hurt?"

"No." She ground away the tears with fists no bigger than the fists of some of my dolls. "It's Cotton," she said. "She's disappeared."

"Disappeared? No," I said, shaking my head. "Uh-huh, she has. She didn't come to my window all day and I asked Henry to find her," Eugenia explained in a shaky voice.

"So?"

"He can't; he's looked everywhere, too," she said, holding her arms up. "Cotton's run away."

"Cotton wouldn't run away," I said confidently. "Henry says she must have."

"He's mistaken," I said. "I'll go look for her myself and I'll bring her to your window."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart," I said, and spun around to charge out of the house as quickly as I had charged in.

Mamma, who was in her reading room, called, "Is that you, Lillian?"

"I'll be right back, Mamma," I said, and put my notebook and my writing paper with "Excellent" on it on a small table in the entryway before going out to find Henry. I saw Emily walking slowly toward the house, her head stiff, her eyes open wider.

"Henry can't find Cotton," I called to her. She smirked and continued toward the house. I ran around to the barn and found Henry milking one of our cows. We had just enough milk cows, chickens and pigs to take care of our own needs, and it was mainly Henry's job to look after them. He raised his head as I came running in.

"Where's Cotton?" I asked, gasping for breath.

"Don't know. Most peculiar thing. Female cats don't usually go wanderin' off like male cats do. She ain't been in her place in the barn for a while and I ain't seen her nowhere on the plantation all day." He scratched his head.

"We've got to find her, Henry."

"I know, Miss Lillian. I've been lookin' every free moment I get, but I ain't seen hide nor hair."

"I'll find her," I said determinedly, and charged out into the yard. I looked around the pig pen and the chicken coops. I went behind the barn and followed the path to the east field where the cows grazed. I looked in the smokehouse and the toolshed. I spotted all our other cats, but I didn't find Cotton. Frustrated, I went down to the tobacco fields and asked some of the workers if they had seen her, but no one had.

After that, I hurried back to the house, hoping Cotton had returned from whatever journey she had made, but Henry simply shook his head when he saw me.

"Where could she be, Henry?" I asked, on the verge of tears myself.

"Well, Miss Lillian, the last thing I can think of is sometimes these cats go over to the pond to paw at the little fish that swim near the shore. Maybe . . ." he said, nodding.