The Gilda Stories (4 page)

Their arrival was inevitably met by either bold, disdainful smirks or surreptitious glances. Everyone knew of the Indian from Woodard's place and now found the addition of the “dark one” a further curiosity they couldn't resist. Bird and the Girl were self-consciously erect as they meandered from one shop to the next, making their way easily among the creamy-colored quadroons who, with mighty effort, pretended they did not see them. It was some time before the Girl understood that these graceful, cold women shared her African blood. She had been so confused and upset by it that she cried as Bird tried to explain the social system of New Orleans, the levels of deceit and manners that afforded the fairer-skinned their privileges and banished the darker ones from society.

For many weeks the Girl could not bring herself to return to town to shop with Bird. First she feigned illness, then begged off because of duties with Bernice. She didn't understand her own fear of these people who tried to look through Bird as if she were glass and simply dismissed her as a slave. Only after an afternoon of making an effort to help Bernice in exchange for being excused from the shopping trip did the Girl find it possible to resume her routine. Bernice had asked her, directly, to explain herself. The Girl found the words for the shame she felt in front of those women, although she could not say why she thought this was so.

“I'll tell you what the problem is . . . you shamed alright,” Bernice said in her now familiarly blunt manner, “but it's them you shamed of. Know how I knows? 'Cause long as you been here you ain't never looked shamed about nothin'. Even that first night when she dragged you in here like a sack. You was your mama's daughter and that was that. What you shamed about is them folks thinkin' they white and they ain't. Thinkin' being nasty to dark folks is gonna help make them white. That's a shame alright. Not yours . . . theirs, so just go on 'bout your business.”

The Girl resumed her shopping with Bird from that afternoon on. Soon they started to speak the languages as often as they could and watched the shopkeepers' and customers' discomfort. Then they would leave the store choking back their giggles. Now to add French! She would be able to understand what she'd been certain were remarks being made about her and speak as well as they did, for Bird had said her facility with languages was excellent. The Girl was even happier than when she'd constructed her first sentence on paper. Gilda was pleased that she'd been correct; the Girl was the one who would give Bird her connection to life. Bird had opened herself to her as she had with no one else at the house except Gilda.

“So Français it is,
ma chère.”

Gilda's unwavering gaze both excited and discomfited the Girl. She sensed some question being answered in Gilda's mind.

“Can I take that Miss Bird?” the Girl said, lifting her tray. She was relieved to have a reason to leave the room for a moment. She needed to think about what had been raised this evening: war, French, as well as the look of satisfaction in Gilda's eyes. She had tried to read Gilda's thoughts as she had been able to do on occasions in the past but was not completely successful now. She perceived a sense of completion that was certainly focused on her, but the pictures that sometimes formed in her mind when she had questions did not appear this time. She left the glasses and tray in the kitchen and stepped into the small den that was used for coats, wanting to sit quietly for a moment. The bubbling wine and excitement had given her a slight headache, and she waited for it to recede so she could rejoin the others when Minta played the piano. She rose as a gentleman entered looking for his coat.

“May I help you, sir?” she inquired.

“You sure can, little gal,” he said, smiling blandly. “I've been over here to New Orleans more than a couple of times now. And I got to say this is the best house west of Chicago.”

His look appraised her although he was speaking of Woodard's. She continued to meet his almost-translucent eyes, as if she might hold his gaze and keep it from traveling over her body.

“Thank you, sir. I'll be sure and tell Miss Gilda you said so.” The Girl waited for the man to point toward his coat, but he stood silently with his eyes on her. The Girl had not known the auction block. She had never stood upon one and had never had any occasion to see the one used regularly in the center of the city. His look, however, made her know it intimately. The gaze from his hazel eyes seared her skin, but her face remained impassive as she spoke.

“Your coat, sir?”

“Not just yet. How old would you say you were, little gal?” The Girl's eyes were almost on a level with his.

“About seventeen. Miss Gilda gave me a birthday party last year. She said she figured I was about seventeen.”

“How's it come you don't remember how old you are?” Even after the uneventful years that had passed since her arrival at the house, the Girl was still wary of white men asking questions. The talk of abolition and maybe a war meant little to her. Any of these men could capture her and take her back to the plantation.

“I was really sick for a while when I was little. My mistress, Miss Gilda's sister, died before she could tell Miss Gilda the exact information.”

“Well, you don't look more'n fourteen to me.”

She wondered why he told such a foolish lie. “Could be, sir, but I don't think so.”

“Come over here and let me get a closer look at you.”

The Girl took two steps nearer, not sure what to expect. He reached out and rubbed her breast. The Girl jumped back, startled. “Aw come on, little gal, let me just get a little somethin' here.”

“No, sir!”

“Then we'll go up to your room. I'll pay the regular price.”

“No, sir! I just do housekeeping for Miss Gilda. If you want I'll call one of the other girls in.”

“I don't want one of the other gals. I'm looking to get to you right now. Come on upstairs.”

The Girl recognized the look in his eye. It came back to her from a place far away. She had the dream only rarely now, but whenever she did she awoke crying in terror. Here, not sleeping, the nightmare stood before her, and instead of fear she felt an icy anger. Her hands clenched and unclenched fitfully, as she thought how she would distract his attention and run from the room. She did not want to cause a fuss and spoil Minta's birthday. She closed her eyes, and her mother's face was pictured clearly. Often it had been hard to remember what her mother looked like, but now here was the African face that had comforted her so often. The Girl was awash with tears.

The girls talked often of the gentlemen, usually with a tinge of indulgence as if they were children being kept busily playing while the women did important things. Never had they indicated any fear of the men who visited Woodard's. Whatever gossip she had heard about violence seemed to come from town, frequently about the haughty, fair-skinned ones and their white lovers. Mistreatment was something she knew Gilda would never tolerate, and the Girl realized just then that neither could she.

When she opened her eyes the moisture spilled out and she said, “Please sir, Miss Gilda will be looking for me in the kitchen. I got chores now.”

“This won't take long,” he said and took her wrist.

“Sir, I've explained—”

She stopped short as Gilda opened the door.

“May I help you, sir?” Gilda's voice was sweet, her anger concealed under the syrup of manners. He loosened his grip on the Girl and gave a deep bow in Gilda's direction.

“Just thought I'd have a little entertainment here.”

“I'm sorry, sir. The Girl works only in the kitchen. I'm sure there are others you'd like to meet.”

“Don't you think it's about time you broke this one in?”

“No, sir. I don't. If you'll leave the management of my girls to me, you just go about having a good time. Why don't we rejoin the party?” She turned toward the Girl. “Go to Bernice, I'm sure she could use your help. They're about to bring out the cake.” The Girl squeezed past Bird who had appeared silently in the doorway.

“I bet you could do a lot of business with that nigra gal, Miss Gilda. You don't know what kind of opportunity you lettin' pass by.”

“As I said, let me do the managing. You just enjoy yourself.”

“I was kinda hopin' to enjoy myself with her,” he said insistently.

“Well, that's not possible,” Gilda said. The syrup froze around the sentence, and her back stiffened. Without turning she felt Bird enter the room and said, “Will you see that this gentleman gets a fresh glass of champagne? I have to go out for a while.” Gilda left through the kitchen.

Bernice started to speak but stopped herself when she saw the jerky movement and aura of rage that swept along beside Gilda.

Gilda welcomed the coolness of the night air against her cheeks. They were flushed with anger. She was surprised by the rage she had felt when she sensed the Girl was in trouble.

In her lifetime, Gilda had killed reluctantly and infrequently. When she took the blood there was no need to take life. But she knew that there were those like her who gained power as much from the terror of their prey as from the life substance itself. She had learned many lessons in her time. The most important had been from Sorel and were summed up in a very few words: the source of power will tell in how long-lived that power is. He had pointed her and all of his children toward an enduring power that did not feed on death. Gilda was sustained by sharing the blood and by maintaining the vital connections to life. Her love for her family of friends had fed her for three hundred years. When Bird chose to join her in this life, Gilda was filled with both joy and dread. The weight of the years she had known subsided temporarily; at last there would be someone beside her to experience the passage of time. Bird's first years at Woodard's were remote now—Bird moving silently through their lives, subtly taking control of management, finding her place closer and closer to Gilda without having to speak of it.

Before she had even considered bringing Bird into her life she had wanted to feel her sleeping beside her. She had not been willing to risk their friendship, though, until she was certain. And Bird had opened to her, deliberately, to let her know her desires were the same as Gilda's. When they first lay together, Gilda sensed that Bird already knew what world it was Gilda would ask her to enter. She had teased Gilda later with sly smiles, about time and rushing through life, until Gilda had finally been certain Bird was asking to join her.

Despite the years of joy they had known together, tonight, walking along the dark road, Gilda felt she had lived much too long. Only now was it clear to her why. The talk of war, the anger and brutality that was revealed daily in the townspeople, was a bitter taste in her mouth. She had seen enough war and hatred in her lifetime. And although her abolitionist sentiments had never been hidden, she didn't know if she had the heart to withstand the rending effects of another war.

And as always, when Gilda reflected on these things she came back to Bird: Bird, who had chosen to be a part of this life, a choice she seemed to have made effortlessly. Gilda had never said the word
vampire.
She had only asked if Bird would join her as partner in the business and in life. In the years since she'd come to the house she always knew as much as was needed and challenged Gilda any time she tried to hide information from her. Bird listened inside of Gilda's words, hearing the years of isolation and discovery. There was in Gilda an unfathomable hunger—a dark, dry chasm that Bird thought she could help fill.

But now it was the touch of the sun and the ocean Gilda hungered for, and little else. She ached to rest, free from the intemperate demands of time. Often she'd tried to explain this burden to Bird, the need to let go. And Bird saw it only as an escape from
her—
rather than a final embrace of freedom.

Thoughts jostled inside her as she moved—so quickly she was invisible—through the night. She slowed a few miles west of the Louisiana state line, then turned back toward her township. When she came to a road leading to a familiar horse ranch within miles of her farmhouse, she slackened her pace and walked to the rear of the woodframe building.

All of the windows were black as she slipped around to the small bunkhouse at the back where hands slept. She stood in the shadows listening. Once inside she approached the nearest man, the larger of the two she could see in the darkness. She began to probe his dreams, then sensed an uncleanness in his blood and recoiled. His sleeping face did not bear the mark of the disease that coursed through his body, but it was there. She was certain. Gilda was saddened as she moved to the smaller man who slept at the other end of the room.

He had fallen asleep in his clothes on top of the blankets and smelled of whiskey and horses. She slipped inside his thoughts as he dreamed of a chestnut-colored bay. Under his excitement lay anxiety, his fear of the challenge of this horse. Gilda held him in sleep while she sliced through the flesh of his neck, the line of her nail leaving a red trail. She extended his dream, making him king of the riders as she took her share of the blood. He smiled with triumph at his horsemanship, the warmth of the whiskey in him thundering through her. She caught her breath, and the other ranch hand tossed restlessly in his sleep. Although she no longer feared death she backed away, her instincts readying her hands to quiet the restless worker if he awoke. Her touch on the other sleeper sealed his wound cleanly. Soon his pulse was steady and he continued to explore the dreams she had left with him. As their breathing settled into a calm rhythm, Gilda ran from the bunkhouse, flushed with the fullness of blood and whiskey.

The road back felt particularly dark to Gilda as she moved eastward. The clouds left little moonlight visible, but she was swift. Blood pounded in her head, and she imagined that was what she would feel once she finally lay down in the sea and gave up her life. Her heart beat with excitement, full of the need to match its rhythm with that of an ocean. There, Gilda would find her tears again and be free of the sounds of battles and the burden of days and nights piled upon each other endlessly. The dust from the road flew up around her as she made her way toward home. She remembered the dusty trek that was the one clear image of her childhood. They had been going toward water, perhaps the sea. The future had lain near that sea, somehow. It was survival for her mother, father, and the others who had moved relentlessly toward it. Now it was that again for Gilda—now and more. The sea would be the place to rest her spirit.