Speak Through the Wind (7 page)

“He cares for me,” Kassandra said, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.

“But if I kissed you here,” Ben grasped her chin and forced Kassandra to look at him, running his thumb along her lips, “I’d have a claim to you, now wouldn’t I? Would you like that? Would you like me to have a claim to you?”

“I don’t know,” Kassandra said, her lips moving against his roughened skin.

“Well, would you like me to kiss you?”

She didn’t know that, either, but apparently Ben wasn’t interested in her answer, because in the next instant she was drawn full to him, his arms circled around her, his lips on hers, his smile becoming a part of her as he brought her closer.

Kassandra’s arms hung limply at her side, her fingers twitching nervously as the comb dropped unheeded to the floor. Her mind raced. She knew she should feel embarrassed or wicked; a good girl would bring up those hands and push Ben away But she could no more command her hands than she could her heart, which she could feel pounding against her clean white cotton chemise. All the fear, all the discomfort she’d felt when he insulted her education, mocked her life with Reverend Joseph, even the nauseating accusations against the reverend’s character disappeared as the sweetness of his kiss took command.

When Ben slowly, gently, teased her mouth to open, just a bit, every drop of blood was drawn from her, leaving her body powerless to stand on its own, on the verge of collapse saved only by the strength of Ben’s arms now wrapped tight around her. She fell against his chest, the pounding pulse in her head drowning out every sound except the breathing of this redheaded boy and—somewhere—the click of a door handle and a familiar heavy step.

“Get out of my kitchen.”

Clara’s steely voice cut through the fog in Kassandra’s head. She brought her hands up, pushed herself away from Ben’s embrace, and spun to face the formidable figure filling the doorway.

“You must be Clara,” Ben said, his voice full of humor and charm.

Clara said nothing, only stepped away from the open door, clearing the way for Ben’s exit, never taking her withering glare off Kassandra, who stood frozen in fear, unable to look away.

“All right then,” Ben said, his voice never losing its bounce. He crossed the kitchen, but stopped just short of the door. “Oops,” he turned and took a step to the side, standing between Clara and Kassandra. “Forgot my hat.”

Kassandra looked up, saw the mischievous glint in his eyes, and felt a tiny wave of comfort wash over her. Ben sent her a wink, and she was powerless not to reward it with a smile. Then, with a few quick steps, he was back at the open doorway, his cap nestled at a jaunty angle in his mass of red curls.

“Shall I have Mr. Sampson put the delivery on your bill, Miss Clara? Or would you like to pay me now?”

Once again, Clara said nothing.

“Right then, it’s on account.”

He was whistling before the door was shut.

“Now, missy, suppose you tell me what I just seen,” Clara said once the diminishing whistled tune left the kitchen with a heavy silence.

“I don’t know.” Kassandra was no longer able to meet Clara’s eyes. Looking down at the floor, she saw the comb lying just next to her boot. She gave it a slight kick, sending it skittering under the table, and hoped to retrieve it in secret before the meticulous woman had a chance to sweep it away.

“Well, then,” Clara said, “let me tell you what I seen. I seen you in here with some piece of Irish trash treatin’ my kitchen like it was some filthy back alley—”

“He just kissed me, Clara.”

“His hands all over you. And look at you, hair loose, down your back. Nothin’ but shame and filth.”

It wasn’t the first time Kassandra had seen Clara in the throes of anger. The woman was a mass of unpredictable temper, but this was different.

“Tryin’ to raise a good girl. Decent.”

“Clara, I am a good girl—”

“An’ the first boy comes up them back steps.

“Clara, please!” Kassandra reached out, alarmed now at the change in Clara. There was an ashen undertone to the woman’s brown skin, a sheen of sweat on her smooth, dark brow.

“Please what?”

Kassandra wasn’t sure. She wanted Clara to please calm down. Or please rant and rave in a more comfortable, familiar fashion. She wanted her to please not think of her as a bad girl, to please understand how wonderful it felt to be kissed. She wanted her to please not tell Reverend Joseph. This last unspoken plea rang most true as the door to the dining room swung open and the reverend himself stepped onto the scene.

“Ladies?” he said, entering the room. He stopped as the door fell shut behind him, his gentle eyes darting back and forth between Kassandra’s pleading face and Clara’s ever-present glare. “Is everything all right?”

“Is your company gone home?” Clara asked, her voice dull and flat.

“Yes, finally,” Reverend Joseph said. “I was coming here to ask you to clear away the tea, but I must say, Clara,” he stepped closer, his face taking on an expression of concern, “you don’t look well.”

“I was just saying the same thing,” Kassandra said, surprised at how easily the lie came. “I think she should go lie down. And rest.”

Clara snatched her arm away from Kassandra’s grasp. “I feel fine,” she said.

“No, no, Kassandra’s right. You go to your room. I’ll send for the doctor to look in on you.”

“I don’t need no doctor.” The strength of Clara’s voice had returned. “But I think I do needs a little quiet.” She began walking toward her room, nestled just at the foot of the back stairs. “There’s some chicken and pea salad left from yesterday. Looks like you two will have a cold supper tonight,” she said, barely looking over her shoulder as she walked. “Think you can take care of yourselves?”

“We’ll be fine, Clara,” Reverend Joseph said, a touch of laughter in his voice. “After all, Kassandra’s practically grown-up now, isn’t she?”

Before hearing Clara’s reply, Kassandra left to gather the tea things from the parlor.

They did have a cold supper that night—and an early one—as Kassandra complained of not feeling well herself. She knocked on Reverend Joseph’s study door after tidying up the kitchen, but opened it only a crack to peek through and say good night.

“Will you check on Clara before you go to bed?” he asked, looking up from the huge leather-bound volume in his lap.

“Of course.”

She walked back through the kitchen and stopped at Clara’s closed door.

“Clara?” she asked, after softly knocking. But there was no answer. “Clara?” she said again, then opened the door just wide enough to poke her head through.

The early hour still permitted some gray light to come through the small window, and Kassandra saw the woman lying on her bed, a light blanket draped over the form that seemed much less round and imposing at rest.

“Clara? Are you awake?” But there was no answer, just an eerie wheezing sound. Relieved that she would have the distance of night and sleep before facing Clara again, Kassandra softly shut the door and went upstairs to her room.

Sleep came fitfully that night as Kassandra tossed on her clean white sheets. She played the kiss over and over in her mind, trying to remember exactly what it felt like, while simultaneously quelling the guilty joy that coursed through her body at the memory. She rolled up the sleeve of her cotton nightgown and brought her own lips to the soft skin at her wrist, wondering what her lips felt like to him, pressing them tight against her pulse. She tortured herself with visions of what might have happened if Clara had not come home, if there had been time for more. She smiled and curled her body up in girlish glee. Then a sliver of moonlight drew her eyes to the tiny sparrow figurine on the top of her dresser, and another thought entirely invaded her mind.

She and Ben had never been alone in the kitchen. God had been watching. And He was watching her now.

The delightful tumbling in her stomach turned to a dense, leaden weight, pulling her from her bed and to her knees. Her forehead sank into the soft mattress and her lips, no longer reenacting a lover’s kiss, moved against her clasped fingers as she whispered in fervent prayer.

“God, forgive me. Forgive me for showing such disrespect for my home. The home You brought me to. Forgive me for feeling …” She had no words to articulate the way she’d responded to Ben’s touch. Only Clara’s accusations burned at the back of her mind. Shame. Filth. Yet even now Kassandra didn’t know if her sin lay in her body’s betrayal or her mind’s desire. “Lord, help me to be a good girl. Help me not to think about Ben. I confess my sin to You, God, and in the name of Jesus Christ Your Son, I ask You to forgive me.”

She stayed on the floor long after her whispered “Amen,” knowing that her confession wouldn’t end there. She had to tell Reverend Joseph. His forgiveness and understanding would restore to her some of the peace that she had destroyed. In the back of her mind she knew, too, that he would be much more willing to forgive an indiscretion she confessed rather than one Clara reported.

Clara. Before getting back up into her bed, Kassandra opened her prayer once again, whispering, “And please, dear God, help Clara to not be so angry with me. Amen.”

Once in bed, Kassandra forced her thoughts away from Ben, silently reciting her multiplication tables up to twelve times twelve before moving on to the elected terms of the presidents. She was up to the inauguration of John Quincy Adams when she heard the soft knock on her bedroom door.

“Kassandra?” Reverend Joseph spoke from the other side.

Never, unless she was sick in bed with a fever, had Reverend Joseph ever come to her bedroom at night. Even when she was ill, it was Clara who stomped across the threshold with a cup of weak tea and a cool cloth. But here he was now, knocking again, calling again, “Kassandra? Are you awake?”

She wasn’t, she decided. She clutched her covers up to her chin, turning onto her side, her back to the door, filled with a terror she could never have imagined even the night before.

Even with one ear buried in her pillow and the other nearly covered with her blanket, Kassandra could not shut out the sound of the turning knob, the slight creak of the opening door. She allowed one eye to open slightly, seeing her own shadow cast on the wall as the room filled with light from the single candle the reverend used as he maneuvered around the house at night.

“Kassandra,
Liebling
, wake up.”

She felt her mattress sink as weight was added to it. He was sitting there, on the edge of her bed. His hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly, turning her toward him.

Unable to keep up the ruse, she turned, saw his face, long and gaunt, the sharpness of his nose and chin exaggerated by the candle’s flickering light, his deep brown eyes pools of blackness, each reflecting a tiny dancing flame.

“Yes, Reverend Joseph?” Kassandra said, feigning a yawn.

“Get up, little Sparrow, and get dressed. Come to the kitchen.”

He stood then and began to walk toward the door. Kassandra sat upright, still clutching her blanket tightly to her.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” she asked, hoping to feign innocence as easily as she had feigned sleep.

“I’m afraid it’s Clara.”

“Is she sick?”

“No,
mein Spatz.
She’s dead.”

he kind thing to do, Reverend Joseph said, was to offer to hold the funeral in his home; after all, Clara had been a loyal servant and somewhat companion of the family for more than twenty years. But his counterpart—the minister from Clara’s own church, equally as tall and solemn and just as dark as Reverend Joseph was pale—politely declined, saying that few of Clara’s friends and family would feel comfortable gathering in this fine home, so far removed from their own neighborhoods and lives. Kassandra was quick to note the briefest passing of relief across Reverend Joseph’s face at this suggestion, just enough so he could offer what she knew to be a genuine expression of his sadness at Clara’s death and a respectful acceptance of the opportunity to speak at the service.

Kassandra herself, through all the visits of Doctor, the coroner, the jet-black minister, and the small Negro man who, surprise of all surprises, was Clara’s own husband, sat mutely at the kitchen table, staring at a final crumb of Clara’s good corn bread lodged in the grain. Each cup of tea made for each new visitor reminded her of her final words with Clara—the ashen undertone to her face, the fight for each breath and word, the eerie wheezing coming from the shadows. Clara had been in the jaws of death at that moment, and Kassandra had done nothing. Doctor and the coroner emerged from her tiny back room, both in agreement that the poor woman’s heart had just stopped in the night, a phrase that sent Kassandra’s hand to such shaking that it sent a few scalding drops from the kettle scurrying across her thumb as she tried to fill the china teapot. She did not cry out in pain, undeserving as she was of the least bit of sympathy or attention from her old friend the doctor. Reverend Joseph heard her gasp, though, and draped his arm across her shaking shoulders, saying, “There, there, child. It was a good heart that stopped.”