The Promise (14 page)

Past the pavilion, lanterns were moving specks of light that poked holes in the darkness. Wagons and buggies creaked as people got into them, the horses blowing and shaking their heads, their harnesses clinking. Near the edge of the pavilion and in the shadows, Oscar and Mrs Williams were nothing but dark shapes, air between them. Just before they stepped down from the planked floor and onto the sand, Oscar put his arm out like he was helping her down. For a moment, their shapes blended. Then they pulled apart, air between them again.

If he were mine, I’d lean right into him, nothing would stop me. Nothing had held Bernadette back. Her hands went to Oscar every chance she got, touching his arms, his shoulders, and his hands. She called him
mon cher
, and she didn’t care who heard her say it. This new Mrs Williams was different. She was cold and stiff-necked but it didn’t seem to much matter to Oscar. The way he looked at her, it was like the sun rose and set on her.

She could play the piano to make a person want to fall right down and cry. But tonight, I’d been the one sitting on the stool playing music with Biff and Camp. We were the ones that raised folks to their feet and got them to dance. We were the ones that set hands clapping. Tonight, I’d stepped right up to the curse that I laid over the men that cared for me and decided I could still find my pleasures. I didn’t sit with the old people; I didn’t spend the evening fussing over the food. Tonight, with everybody watching, I put my bow to the fiddle strings and showed another side of me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Sea Daisies

It was mighty hot the next morning, me taking the path that went alongside of the bayou, dew and cockleburs catching hold of my hem. The air didn’t move, not one little bit, and purely hissed with steam. It was plenty dark too, my lantern throwing just a patch of light, the thread of pink dawn at the horizon along the gulf not doing much good.

The bayou’s low tide was a soft whish as it lapped into the marshy salt grass. A few toads croaked, and from time to time, something plopped into the water. Mud turtles, I figured, them sliding off of pieces of driftwood.

I wasn’t given to walking, not if there was a wagon or a horse to ride. But this was Sunday, and Oscar gave Frank T. and Wiley the day off. That meant I had to walk to Oscar’s. It meant I had to carry the basket that was heavy with eggs and food from our garden, onions and okra and suchlike. Everything was different on Sundays. Mama and Wiley took the wagon to the Baptist church on the west side of town while Frank T. went in his buggy so as to court Maggie Mandora. But Daddy didn’t go. He couldn’t sit still, not even to hear a preacher preach.

Last week when Oscar got around to telling me he was fixing to get married, I was so taken aback that I couldn’t think straight. ‘Leastways you can take up coming to church with me,’ Mama had said when I’d told her. But that was before Mrs Williams showed up, before I found out Oscar had married a woman that didn’t know one thing about a kitchen. I could let him starve on Sundays; he was a grown man and knew what he was getting with her. And Mrs Williams didn’t eat but a speck; she’d get by fine. But I couldn’t let Andre go hungry. Neither could I let the three orphan boys that worked for Oscar on Sundays go without. I couldn’t live with myself, sitting in church knowing little bellies rumbled at the Williams’ house.

I high-stepped over the rusty train tracks that went to the boarded-up lace factory on down the island, and I opened and closed the gate to Oscar’s back pasture. I held the lantern high so I could step around cow patties. Up ahead by a mile, a light came on at Oscar’s barn. Things ran an hour late on Sundays, him going to Mass. That was what he called church. Mass. It didn’t make sense to me, but I wasn’t a Catholic and glad of it. I couldn’t sleep with a crucifix over my bed but it didn’t seem to bother Mrs Williams. The house was dark. She wasn’t no dairy farmer’s wife, that was one thing I knew for sure.

Skeeters whined in my ears. My hands were full and I couldn’t wave them off, but nothing was going to spoil the lightness in my feet, not this morning. I might be carrying a lantern and a basket of food, but I could still feel my bow riding the strings of my fiddle.

I could feel the strings under my fingertips; I could feel the music inside of me. This was what I wanted to think about, not how Oscar and Mrs Williams looked when they danced, their want for the other showing. Neither was I going to think about her mournful piano tune about the moonlight. That woman was nothing but an aggravation. She stirred things up; she woke up hurts. Or put them there. But I wasn’t going to let her do that. Not today.

I let myself into Oscar’s house, and there, I put my mind to my work and rolled out biscuits, boiled the grits, and fried the bacon while Mrs Williams laid in bed. Andre was asleep, too. The dance had worn him out. When the coffee was perking strong, I woke him up. ‘Honey boy,’ I said, my hands cupped around both sides of his little head there on his pillow. ‘Breakfast is nearly on the table.’

He nodded, his eyes all puffy and his hair standing high in every direction.

‘The orphans’ll be here,’ I said.

That got him to his feet, and it wasn’t long after that when a light showed up around the edges of Mrs Williams’ bedroom door. She didn’t move quick in the morning, no one could say that about her. When she finally came looking for breakfast wearing her white shirtwaist and green skirt, there was a lively crowd at the table. Oscar, collarless but his shirt buttoned up all proper-like, was on one bench with Andre. Me and the three orphan boys were crowded up on the other.

‘Oh my,’ she said, taking us all in.

Real quick, Oscar pulled out the napkin he’d tucked in at his neck. He got to his feet and said, ‘Catherine, these are my Sunday employees. James, Bill, and Joe. Likely you saw them at the dance. They were the ones surrounded by all the pretty girls.’

That turned the orphans red.

‘Boys,’ he said. ‘This is Mrs Williams.’ He might have been talking to the orphans but his gaze was fixed on her. It made her heartbeat show in her neck. It made her fumble as she sat down beside Oscar, an empty plate waiting there for her.

‘How do you do?’ she finally said to the orphans.

The orphans mumbled their ‘ma’am’s. Even though they were alongside of me, I felt their glances skipping from her to Andre and then landing back on her. Her spell, I thought. She’d cast it over these three boys as young as they were, the oldest being thirteen, them gawking at her blue eyes and dainty lips. But this was different than it was with grown men. The way those orphan boys looked at Andre made me think they wished they were him. They’d give anything to shuck off their charity-box shirts and patched-over pants that marked them as orphans. They’d give anything for a mama, even one that didn’t know the first thing about taking care of children.

Oscar said to Mrs Williams, ‘The boys are letting Frank T. and Wiley have the day off.’ He passed what was left of the scrambled eggs to her. I saw her look at her empty cup and then at the coffee pot over on the stove. There wasn’t any tea; Oscar had forgotten to tell my brothers to get some. She must have figured that out because she got up and poured herself some coffee, saying, ‘Would anyone else care for some?’ We all said no, this being our second pot. When she sat down, Oscar said, ‘The boys here rode back with me after Mass.’

‘Mass?’ she said. ‘You’ve been to church and back? It’s not quite seven o’clock.’

‘Went to five-thirty Mass.’

‘Good heavens. So early. I heard you get up but …’ She stopped herself like she had just said something shameful. Maybe she had. Something crossed over Oscar’s face, the kind of look a person gets when he tries to make sense of things that don’t make sense. The color, what there was, dropped right out of Mrs Williams’ cheeks. Right quick, she busied herself with a swallow of coffee. Then it hit me. For all their wanting of the other, things weren’t right in their bedroom.

Oscar stepped around it. ‘That’s dairy farming for you,’ he said. ‘We’re up with the cows. Those gals of mine weren’t listening when God declared Sunday a day of rest.’

Mrs Williams patted her mouth with her napkin like she’d been eating and had made a mess somehow. I told myself to stop thinking about their bedroom. It wasn’t none of my business. She put her napkin on her lap, spread it out, then fixed her attention on the orphans and said, ‘And where do you boys live?’

‘St. Mary’s, ma’am,’ Bill said.

‘We’re orphans,’ James said. ‘We don’t have any folks.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear.’

‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ Bill said. ‘We know what we are.’

She nearly buckled at that. ‘I’m so very sorry. I didn’t know.’

A person would have thought she’d made the orphans lay a secret out on the table for everybody to look at. That wasn’t so. We knew their stories. James was a foundling. Thirteen years ago, he’d been left on the doorstep at St. Mary’s. It was January and cold. He was wrapped in a tattered blanket with a note pinned to it.
Please. He is better off with you than me.
The nuns at St. Mary’s didn’t take newborns, those went to the orphanage in the city. But they wanted this baby boy that had a tuft of red hair. They said it was God’s will. God had whispered into the mama’s ear and led her to St. Mary’s. Folks up and down the island thought different. Most figured the daddy was somebody nearby, a ranch hand maybe, the mama leaving the baby here as a reminder to that man. But that didn’t much matter to the nuns. They held on to that child. They gave him a name, a birthday, and a home, proving his mama right about him being better off with them.

Things weren’t so foggy with Bill and Joe. They were brothers, a few years apart. Bill, the older one, was twelve. They were brown-haired, and when Joe smiled, dimples showed up. Bill and Joe’s last name was Murney. Five years ago, their mama died from consumption. The very next day, her barely cold, their daddy’s heart seized up and killed him. The boys’ older sisters brought them to St. Mary’s, the girls crying and telling the nuns they couldn’t raise Bill and Joe, not on their own. The girls had to hire out as household help; their folks had left them close to penniless.

‘Hard workers,’ Oscar said. ‘That’s what I say about these good men from St. Mary’s. Couldn’t run the dairy without them, not on Sundays I couldn’t.’

‘My, yes,’ Mrs Williams said, her words coming in big puffs. ‘I can well imagine.’ She said that like she knew something about dairy farming. Then I was thinking that this was how it was going to be between her and Oscar. She’d say or do something to embarrass herself, and he’d come in behind her making things right.

She picked up her fork and that made the orphans gawk for the second time in a handful of minutes. This time, though, they were shooting each other sideways looks, the kind that said they could hardly believe their eyes. Mrs Williams was fixing to eat and she hadn’t prayed. That was what I figured they were thinking. Them St. Mary’s boys couldn’t pop nothing into their mouths without praying about it first. But here she was, taking bitty bites of egg. Joe was so surprised that his jaw hung open. Andre’s new mama was a heathen. I saw that thought dash across his face.

Oscar got himself another biscuit out of the bread basket. That made James do the same, so did Bill and Joe, their skinny wrists showing as they reached into the basket, the cuffs of their sleeves frayed some. Oscar poured honey from the jar over his biscuit, so did the orphans. Honey was a Sunday treat. Andre ran the flat side of his fork through a puddle of it on his plate, then licked it. Mrs Williams shook her head a little and frowned at him. His face clouded up. Her frown deepened. He put his fork down.

‘We’ll be done in the barn in an hour or so,’ Oscar said to Mrs Williams. ‘We’ll get the milk on over to St. Mary’s, leaving just enough time to get you to church services in the city.’

‘Oscar,’ she said. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘But, Daddy,’ Andre said. ‘What about seeing Mama?’

A bolt of lightning, that was what them words were. Mrs Williams went straight as a ruler. So did Oscar, the orphans, too. Going to the cemetery was what Oscar and Andre did every Sunday. But Oscar had forgotten, and now the shock of forgetting gave way to something else. Misery. His green eyes were dark with it. He’d hurt Andre.

‘Son,’ Oscar said. His voice was low. ‘Not today.’

‘But, Daddy? We always—’

‘Son.’

‘I want to see Mama.’

‘I know.’ His voice had gone lower. ‘But not today.’

‘I want to see Mama.’

Oscar’s jaw firmed up. ‘Andre. No. No more of this.’

Andre started to open his mouth.

‘Young man.’

The two of them glared at each other, Andre from under his scrunched-up eyebrows.

‘Oscar?’ Mrs Williams said. ‘What—’

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Not here.’

She clamped her mouth shut; her glance darted from Oscar to Andre. Their faces were storm clouds. Oscar bolted down the last of his coffee and got up, the bench scraping loud on the floor and jostling Andre and Mrs Williams.

‘Men,’ Oscar said to the orphans. There was gravel in his voice. ‘Time’s wasting,’ and that set the orphans moving. The three boys scuffled, getting themselves untangled from the bench, hurrying to catch up with him.

‘Ladies,’ he said when he got to the door. He shot Andre one last look, one filled with warning, and then Oscar was out the door, the orphans nearly riding his heels, pushing and shoving each other, them always having a contest about who got to the barn first. All the ruckus set the dogs to barking. They’d been asleep under the house but they were stirred up good, the pounding of feet on the veranda doing that to them.

At the table, Andre slumped. His face puckered, tears ready to spout.

He’d shamed Oscar, it was plain as day. And he had done it before the crowd at the table. Andre wanted his mama even if Oscar thought the sun rose and set on Catherine Williams, her sitting where Bernadette used to with her hand on her cheek like she’d just been slapped. Oscar might have forgotten Bernadette, but Andre hadn’t.