Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (107 page)

He knew me and had grinned his puckish simple grin. Fine indicator. Doc even said so. We’ll see.

Walking fast, Captain arrived. “It’s not scarlet fever,” he said first thing, like giving me direct orders. I nodded, willing to obey in this at least. He said, “Lou mentioned his having a fearsome temperature. But it’s not scarlet fever Archie has, I know not. It’s in the county, everybody says so. What, are you walking around with a bloody ankle?”

I reached over and took his hand. I made a mouth. “Sorry,” my man said and sat beside me. “Sorry. You know how one gets.—He’s our card, Archie. Something to look forward to with him. Sorry,” my husband said.

I felt grateful I had not yet been forced to contribute nothing aloud.

We just sat there. It was nice. He was in the un-rocking chair beside mine. To feel another person’s big mitt close over all five of your own fingers—I cannot tell you how calming this was just then, how precious. He had been my partner in getting myself with Archie and now he’d interrupted work and everything to see us through this. That too was a very excellent sign about our smart boy’s future, yes. That pulled me back partway from the South Pole. We had our differences, the Cap and me, but in emergencies … He said, “How’d you do it?” I knew he meant my ankle but only for … conversation purposes. “Just getting over here quick enough.” Then he said, “We’ve been very very lucky with ours, Lucille. Measles, nothing more. Great good fortune, God help it to continue.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yes.” But I felt he was talking too much. Bad luck.

Two of the three patients left and I could tell that they had not seen Doc yet, that they were not pleased but couldn’t gripe aloud. They gave us the respectful head bobs that dramatic bad luck gets.

Collier spoke behind me. I turned to see him drenched, ice water, his own sweat, eyeglasses about to slide clear off the tip of his long nose.

“May I?” I stood, held up my finger, showing I planned to push them on.

“Please, many thanks.” Doc nodded at Captain. “As you were,” Doc said, hinting we both should sit again, a military order. I hate military orders, not too good of a luck at a time like this.

Doc had the kindest voice, just like his nurse did. Collier’s twin daughters, the flute geniuses, had run off with a paper boy one third their age and, since that, folks said Doc’d grown vague-headed and that he overprescribed. They said he had got Old Lady Helms hooked to drugs but, me, I trusted him. I was thinking how it helps when your family practitioner and his old nurse both have such beautiful kind talking voices. “Lucille,” the total voice now said. “Lucille, child, it’s not good. He’s gone into fits. It’s the fever. He’s resting. The crisis is occurring just now. It happens this fast sometimes. Have you taken him downtown? He’s so young and it’s just profoundly contagious.”

“It’s not scarlet fever,” Captain told our doctor. “Because that’s out in the county.”

“Doc, I did take him to Lucas’ with me in his buggy. I mean, I had to buy
food
, where could I leave him? You got to live.”

“It’s fine, you two just sit right here. News could be okay. Look,” he went back for a second, then carried out the tray, “I brought you both a nice Cocola, on a tray.”

I pointed to chilly sweating glasses. “Ice,” I said. “You got enough back there? You don’t need this? And your plants want watering. He knew me, didn’t he, Doc? Tell Cap. Good sign, Doc said.”

Then Nurse Milgrom come out, wiping her hands on a towel. “George? best go in.” I’d never heard her nor anybody else call Doc Collier by his first name. Then Nurse said, “I think it … went against us.” Doc moved quick but he was back out here so fast. Had he even checked, really checked good in so little a time? I mean, you want to be sure.

They had this look. A look about them, standing there, white uniforms shoulder to white shoulder. I cannot tell you. (I knew—like on the side—that they had been lovers for forty years. “George,” she’d said. Death made them forget to hide it for oh maybe twenty seconds. Staring at It, that scared, they drew nearer for a flash, then distance remembered itself. I saw this out the corner of my eye-like. It made me sad for them, their secret, even their happiness, it made me sad.)

Doc touched the sleeve of Captain’s black coat, said he was just as sorry as a person could ever be. “These things happen,” his choir voice said.

“It don’t seem possible,” I sounded bouncy, wrong. “Boy, not three hours ago, he was all appetite and making faces, you know our Archie …” “I’ll bring you out a nice Cocola on a tray,” Nurse Milgrom said. “I did, I did that,” Doc pointed.

I said loud, too loud, “What do I need with it being On A Tray? That’s supposed to help us now and be fancy, a drink On A Tray?” My husband reached for me. I shook him off, I turned my back on everybody. “It’s just it takes so long for them to finally get born, and then it’s over with so quick.—Ain’t it? It’s just so quick …”

Captain reached for me, nervous I was being foolish and I knew he was right, I really
was
this time. Because I seen them dogs come back and start rutting. “Look,” I signaled, “look, two dogs are fucking and the baby’s dead. They get to fuck. And nobody even knows yet. Who’ll miss him?”

Oh, darling, forgive me this dropping all this on you like this.

It’s just that if you can tell your own son is going to be funny—and how he might offer that fine a level of company—you get ready to enjoy some benefits from Archie along up ahead. He came into a person’s body and out of a person’s life—quick as some hat trick, gone. He is recalled today only as a nineteen-dollar marble block saying:

Oh, dear. I swear I’ll never mention him again.

W
HITE FOLKS
’ Bible say, “In my Father’s house is many mansions.” But, Mrs. Lady? down here, for now, this the only one
you
got. House about to burn, ma’am. Is.

You still wants your girl to tell-tale Africa aloud?

Castalia’s been being you slave for most her fifteen years, entire. I forever listened at tales of your great coming-out ball in Charleston. You always say that’s partway like my coming out … of Africa.—Well, Lady, today and today only, since you wiggling there on the piano stool, since we slamming fast towards this bad deal’s end, I believe I
is
going to tell you … all of it, for onct.

Just to prove what a fine mood this slave’s in, you stay at you keyboard, keep on tinkling out that icy tune. (Do it make you feel better? Good. Cause from now on, Mrs. Music, you gone need all the comfort you can get.)

Soon as them Yankee horses snorts up to this Big House, soon as Northren torches find us, I can shuck my apron, do one serious jig on it. Here at the end, I can
afford
to talk of my folks’ coming out into evil. But, Fancy Nancy, you best listen good. This my last run-through, ever. You perch right there, fretting if you pretty enough to get captured. Spread that fine white satin all round you big old feets (oh, Castalia knows how huge). Your Castalia’s gone paint Africa, gone try. Be my final gift to you.

PICTURE
it. I seems to recollect a certain perfect root-bound jungle. Picture it like through smoked eyeglasses, lenses cured green, mustardy and gray. Castalia were most definite a princess over there. Oh yeah. Everybody what floated from our village to work for you here, they says so too.

Now,
in
this particular Africa, Mrs. Picky Eater, we had us more trees than you could shake somebody else’s stick at. You think this plantation’s
two thousant acres of woods be wooded? Ha. Africa feel ways more thicker/older than here. Our trees? why every one wore forty good-sized coconuts up top. Vines hanging every which a ways, drooping so you didn’t know if roots was fastened in the sky or steaming up off jungle floor. Now,
on
them vines, growing free of charge, bunches of the flowers you folks calls “orchids.” For us, they bout like weeds. In Africa, luxury’s second nature.

So, while I dust you English figurines, while I dabs lemon and linseed on this mahogany, try and notice me a bit better than usual (meaning: start to). You forever says what’s “bad form,” “good form.” Castalia’s kidnap might help you get, good form, through yours. Yours gone happen in thirty-seven minutes. Watch.

Our coming out—it hinge on one old lady, King’s great-aunt, my great-great-one. We talking the meanest thing this side of a open grave, a doubled-up antique croaker, name of Reba. Reba would disappear for weeks, she live off by herself. Right when you first notice Aunt’s been gone so long, right when you figure she done finally died from snakebite (Auntie’s body shown a scoreboard of fang marks), just when you believe she been claimed by quicksand, here come the scratch of her knob-topped stick. Here into sight do Reba hunch, scolding you for some tiny silly thing you done—a slip-up you figured hadn’t one soul but yours noticed. Reba been so weaned on Legend, she nearbout creaked with all that she done tried and ceremonied over and then spit out as “wrong.”

You think
my
disposition’s nasty when I get into my door-slamming fits? Should of seen Miss Reba’s dark-day moods. Throwed stuff, and not just around, I talking
at
folks! Chucked rocks towards teasing children. Good aim, too. When you spied Auntie in her gloomy figuring state, you’d best run.

NOW
, Miss Sick Headaches, in our time, we all done seen some messed-up fish-faced folks stumping round. But this Reba were so ugly it almost got honorary. Been clubbed around the head and shoulders with the Ugly Stick so many times, Stick broke, splintered. Some people they so bad-shaped and crookedy, it almost starts to come up on the slippery side of beauty all over again. You seen it?

You know them things you call crow’s-feets? ones you been fighting with every import balm-salve known to God? Well, Reba’s each wrinkle ended in a three-way tie to start another set, and on and on till she look to be a regular schoolhouse for creasing deep. (Not like you, that wants your face to be a stopped clock. Which ain’t natural.) Lack of teeth meant Reba Woman’s nose most chafed against her chin. Poor thing had nostrils so wide open, they about like spare eye sockets waiting for eyeballs to roll down in there on vacation. Un-hunh. Her little eyes be twin flint judgments cushioned into sacks of feathery folds, all earned. Every soul what’d knowed her in her life’s first half, they long since gone total dust. She alone. She living in that Old past pretty old. It the spot where the worst done long back happened.
Time’s just keeping you around—a chained pet—feeding you table scraps (the odd half-days). Our tribe claimed Auntie acted so cross cause she way too smart. Hurts, that high-up of a mind.

Everybody considered that she fed mostly off the meats of these huge snakes she kilt. Wherever Reba padded barefoot, guided by her walking pole, you’d hear the jungle shudder, frying with snakes sneaking off, grumpy over kin snakes lately stomped into being Reba snake steaks. Folks went to Auntie for advice.

She
too lizard-quick not to mostly know, too cruel to ever lie. Sometimes, during a fine late-night dance, you’d look up from shaking you new parrot-feather anklets, and you’d spot her, most hid by leaves, squinting right at you, little pointy eyes ever smirking in a way that seem halfway admiring you, half finding you flat pitiful. Miss Reba eyeballed warnings at the world. Come time, Aunt looked right into the face of that great judging thing what grabbed and changed us all for good. Was Reba led us over here.

BEFORE
getting stole, we didn’t understand what Sin meant. No missionaries yet been kind enough to paddle upriver, point out what-all we doing wrong. Plus, nobody’d ever laid eyes on any Wedgwood china needing careful scouring after dinner. (Remember how you had me whipped, Madam Sassy, for busting that gravy boat by accident, ten lashes cross my back in front of all the others? You don’t recall? I can take my blouse off, smack you memory a bit. You already forgot how my mother lived here at The Lilacs with me? She blonged to you, along with me. By the time I got ready to axt Queen Mother my full history, she gone. Momma left me alone here, to make up a truth, homemade as me. So true it’d seem like what she might could have told. This that truth. Recollect what you had done to her? Castalia remember. A good servant, I gone carry that around
for
you.)

But, back over there, come dawn for miles of jungle, won’t one Wedgwood salt dish to wash, no boll weevil needed pulling off a local boll. And, Missy, just to show you how backwards we done truly been, we didn’t miss either Bible wickedness or hard labor. Not yet invented: Sin or Work. Now, won’t we simple!

SEEM
like I were quite a princess over yonder. I said that, but it
do
bear a certain mount of repeating. Each morning here at The Lilacs when I goes to empty you nasty chamber pot, I chants to myself, “Were one, were one.” It help. Even here, I gots to keep some them old slave folk (my cousins) from bowing down to me. Bad form. Say we out working the collard patch. I’ll hear a muttering in some language I don’t half know no more. I look over, there they is, kneeling mong the ruts of a field, just bending low and calling me the newer queen of our old-timey misused tribe of Reba the Wiser. Well, I just won’t
have
folks rolling round under my feet. (Unlike
some
people.)

Strange as it might sound to you, Lady Chilliness, onct I been brung over and was working like something store-bought, I didn’t feel the leastway surprised to recollect my royal blood. I could
feel
the kingly squish in my arms, a joyful extra doodad pounding in my throat. Even while you sits over there hitting patchwork chords (I glad I made a dent in that Stephen Foster tune, your usual weed and orchid), even while I stands dusting things not rightfully mine, why I is yet a princess. Maybe you can’t see it. But no weak Blue eye can see Brown blue blood true.