East of Orleans (32 page)

Elora spent hours playing in the garden that her and her mother had planted. She would dart out from behind colorful hydrangea bushes often chasing butterflies. And when she would stop and try to catch one of the butterflies it would escape her while she bent down to smell the fragrant smell of the flowers.

Elora’s eyes were big and blue; not like Isabella’s, but to Isabella Elora’s eyes had a lure to them much like Tom’s. Her wispy hair was a white blond that always had a little pink bow in it. She was a happy child and loved to laugh when her mother would pick her up and swing her around and around. There was innocence to Elora that reminded Jules of Isabella. On warm days Elora would be out in the yard; often barefooted and Jules would laugh and call her his little dancing girl as she played and danced in the yard. If she was outside when he was about to leave to go to the warehouse he would grab at her and chase her around the yard. It was obvious to anyone who saw them that Jules loved this child. And to some Kate and Priscilla in particular, it seemed that Jules loved Elora more than Isabella. If the baby was restless and unsettled it was usually Jules or Priscilla that was able to calm her down. Jules would often head out the back door and take her for a little walk before her bedtime. He had confided in Kate about Isabella’s lack of mothering when it came to her own child. In a sympathetic voice, Kate told Jules that Isabella had been through a lot and that in the beginning, Isabella did not want the baby. In Elora’s first few months Kate and Nell had been the one’s to care for the child. So Kate attributed this to the fact that Elora seemed more like a baby sister to Isabella than her own child. Even so it was obvious that she loved Elora very much.

To Isabella’s relief, Jules continued to work long days and nights. Several evenings a week Jules opened the warehouse to his poker buddies. Isabella pictured him and the men, looking like a bunch of prowling cats. Of course, Jules could prowl as late, and as often, as he wanted.

Isabella managed to look concerned when Jules left for work. She would smile and nod and kiss her husband on the cheek. With a wrinkled brow, Isabella told Jules that he needed to take better care of himself and that she wished he would get more rest. She praised his work ethic and his moneymaking abilities. And she always reminded him what a smart man he was. Why, he was the smartest man she had ever known, she told him. Jesse would look at her in disbelief, wondering if Tom Slaughter had taken ill or died.

Isabella had a plan. She sat on the verandah, just before twilight, plotting and planning what she would do next. She watched the old ladies stroll past her house and thought she would rather die than end up like them. They bored her, and the young women who lived on the street were rude to her. Isabella wondered how they stood being laced up in corsets all day. Some of them were fat as pigs, but it was no wonder, for a few of them did nothing but sit out on their verandahs, drink tea, eat cobbler, iced pound cake, and gossip. And more often than not, she suspected the gossip was about her.

She bet most of them had never slopped a hog, or wrung a chicken’s neck to cook for supper. Isabella was certain the younger women had not. They were too frail, and most of them looked as bad as a sick cow. She reckoned all they did was prance around in
Forsyth
Park
showing off their new clothes and bonnets.

Isabella missed going to church and she even convinced Jules to go with her one Sunday. Granny told Isabella right before she died that she should always go to church, but Isabella wondered if Granny would want her to go if she knew how mean the women there treated her. They made belittling remarks about her; Isabella could hear their loud whispers and snickers. However, when the same group of women found out where she lived they became friendlier, even complimenting her on her “simple taste.”

As she sat on the porch in the quiet twilight Isabella closed her eyes and wished things had never changed. She imagined that she was back in Shakerag and that she and Tom were on the banks of the
Chattahoochee
River
. Her daddy was across the river fishing, Tick was there and Granny held little Henry while she told him stories about a loggerhead turtle.

The next morning after Jules left for work and Elora had finished with her eggs and grits, Isabella asked Priscilla if she wanted to go with her and Elora to the park. Priscilla fussed about there being breakfast dishes left for her to clean up and Jules had poured coffee grains in the sink, but she told Isabella that if she could wait for her to clean up and change her skirt, that she would go to the park with her and the baby. Priscilla finished her morning chores and hurried to the porch where Isabella watched Elora as she played on the front steps with her doll. Priscilla looked down the steps and said, “Oh lawd, Miz Isabella, dat child gonna have worms—she got a whole fistful of dirt in her mouth!”

Isabella jumped up and looked at Priscilla who had on a green and white checked dress and a straw bonnet that tied on the side with a red ribbon.

“I ate dirt when I was little and I didn’t have any worms. Dirt ain’t gonna hurt her. Besides, Granny used to say that if a young-un ate dirt, they needed some sort of mineral that they weren’t getting in their food.”

“I knows, I heard dat too, but I ain’t taking any chance with Miz Elora coming down with de worms. Only white trash young-uns have worms and ain’t no child of Mister Jules gonna be called white trash.” Isabella sighed and Priscilla picked up Elora and carried her into the house where she washed out her mouth and hands with warm water and lye soap. Then Priscilla changed Elora’s clothes, put a white lace bonnet on her curly tow head and placed her in a wicker baby buggy still kicking and screaming from the taste of the lye soap.

Isabella and Priscilla strolled down the street; women and children were coming from all directions. A little Negro boy, trotted past them pushing a red wheelbarrow full of apples and a sack of potatoes. Isabella gathered up her crisp pink skirts with one hand in fear of the boy running over them with the wheelbarrow. The crowded street gave way to carriages, white faced ladies with hair piled high on their heads under feathered bonnets and black mammies clutching the hands of young children. Through the tangle of people, under the un-merciful sun, sat
Forsyth
Park
, with its timeless allure.

Isabella felt sick; the crowds of people and the humid air nauseated her. She walked over to the fountain and raised her skirt to cool the perspiration. A drunken man lay on a bench close to the fountain; Isabella smelled his odor and knew that she would throw up if she didn’t get a drink of water soon. The man had on a tattered gray uniform; he was a war veteran. How sad, she thought. She sat down next to the fountain and put her head between her legs. She heard Priscilla’s voice, but did not recognize who she was talking to. Suddenly, Isabella felt strong arms around her and heard a deep whisper.

“Are you hurt?” asked the man.

“No, I feel sick, but I’m okay. I just need some water.”

The man looked up and motioned for Priscilla to come near. “Go over and look in my carriage. There’s a jug of water on the passenger seat; bring it to me.”

“Yessuh, Mister Patrick, I’se be right back. Will you watch the baby?”

“I’ll be glad to.”

Patrick looked at Isabella sideways, extended his hand and said, “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Patrick O’Brien.”

Priscilla ran up with the jug of water and dropped it in Patrick’s hands. He put the jug of cool water to Isabella’s mouth and she drank. Patrick removed a kerchief from around his neck and soaked it with the water. He then dropped the kerchief on Isabella’s forehead and blotted away the perspiration. Isabella pulled herself to her feet, shook Patrick’s hand, and looked at him with a slightly disoriented look.

“I don’t think you should try and walk back home, Miss…?”

“Isabella,” she said, raising her eyes.

“Okay, Miss Isabella, but regardless I don’t think you should try to walk home. I’ll take you in my carriage.” Patrick turned to Priscilla and smiled. “Well, I see you found other employment in a hurry.”

“Mister Patrick, I done all I could do for Miz Jacqueline; dat woman is as crazy as a fox and I couldn’t stay dere no mo’. Besides, I done gone and got baptized. I’se a Christian woman now.”

Isabella leaned forward; she could not believe what she just heard.

“Priscilla, take care of the baby and I’ll take Isabella home,” Patrick ordered.

“Yessuh, Mister Patrick. I hope you ain’t mad at me, but I done the best I could do.”

Patrick laughed. “No, Priscilla, I’m not mad at you.”

Thoughts darted in and out of Isabella’s mind. Was this the Patrick O’Brien, Mrs. Kate’s son, and if so, what did he have to do with the woman named Jacqueline and was this the same Jacqueline that lived on Oglethorpe? Jules’s Jacqueline? It couldn’t be, or could it?

Just as Patrick helped Isabella into his carriage and she loosened her grip, someone called out his name. The voice came nearer and then Isabella saw her. She carried herself like a princess. Isabella turned to Patrick and noticed his eyes sparkle. The woman swayed when she walked and her green eyes narrowed.

“Bonjour,” she said with an accent. She smiled in a way that made Isabella feel uncomfortable. Her raven hair tumbled down her shoulders and she looked at Isabella with a smirk.

Patrick fumbled in his pockets, trying to keep a straight face said, “I am taking this young lady home. She doesn’t feel well.”

Isabella looked at her helplessly.

The woman gave a weak smile, “I’m sorry you are not feeling well. I hope you get better soon.”

Isabella tried to nod and said, “Thank you, Miss…?”

“Jacqueline, Jacqueline Rousseau, and you are?”

Patrick’s eyes met Jacqueline’s.

“Isabella, Isabella McGinnis.”

Jacqueline’s eyes danced blazes of fire.

Priscilla’s jaw dropped and she grabbed Elora’s hand. “Lawd, child, let’s go over and feed the birds some bread crumbs dat I brought with me.” She glanced at Jacqueline. “There ain’t no point in us being round dat bad woman. I’se a Christian woman and if Mister Jules hear of me bringing his child round such as dis, I’se need mo’ than de lawd to help me.” Priscilla pushed the baby carriage back over to the center of the park, away from Patrick, Isabella and Jacqueline.

Isabella had imagined this time to be more exhilarating than it was, but it could not have been tenser. Here she was in Patrick O’Brien’s carriage, and who, of all people, was staring at her, but the woman her husband kept in a house on Oglethorpe. The most beautiful woman Isabella had ever laid eyes on.

Patrick looked up at Jacqueline, her long hair fell loose around her breas,t pulled away from her face by a French rhinestone clasp. He gave her an odd look, “Darling, do you want to ride with us?”

Eyeing Isabella, Jacqueline whispered, “Oui.” and slipped into the back seat. Not another word was said until Patrick pulled in front of the house on
Monterrey
. Isabella started to get out of the carriage, then turned to look back at Jacqueline and their eyes locked. There was a realization that this indeed was her husband’s whore. It was in her eyes—something Isabella had never seen before. The look of a woman that had shared the same man, no words needed to be exchanged the language was universal.

“Can I see you to the door?” asked Patrick.

“Thank you,” whispered Isabella as she climbed out of the carriage, “but I can manage.”

She turned and ran up the steps and into the house. Patrick heard a voice scream out and to his amazement, Jules McGinnis walked out from the back of the house and came right up to the carriage. He stared malevolently at Patrick and Jacqueline. “What in the hell are the two of you doing sitting in front of my house? Isn’t it enough that you’ve tried to steal my other house, what are you up to now? Are you here to take this one, too?”

Patrick looked up at Jules in surprise. “It seems we share a similar concern this morning,” said Patrick.

Jules raised his broad chin and narrowed his eyes, “There ain’t nothing you got, O’Brien, that would concern me, nothing except my goddamn house.”