The Promise (20 page)

She snapped at Andre and told him that he was in her way, she didn’t have time for him to follow her around. ‘You’re too big for such,’ she said. ‘Five years old. Go get your spade and play under the house. Go on.’ He scurried away. ‘Looking for buried treasure,’ Nan said when I asked what he was doing with a spade.

‘I see. Like
Treasure Island
,’ I said.

‘Huh?’

‘Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel,’ I said. ‘There are buccaneers, and a quest for a map that marks the location of a buried chest. It’s a great favorite among little boys.’

‘Never heard of it.’

I busied myself in the bedroom and at the dressing table; I rearranged my jars of cream, my brush and comb, and my bottle of lavender water as if the exact placement of each object was important and gave purpose to my day. Next, I straightened my skirts in the wardrobe. I could play the upright or read a book on the veranda, but both were unthinkable while Nan labored in the kitchen. When I was a child, my mother’s maids, usually young women from Wales or from Ireland, were trained to work without being seen. Laundry was done in the kitchen, a room with a door, a room that was not the other half of the parlor. Floors were scrubbed and furniture was dusted while I was at school and my mother called on friends.

I unfolded and refolded my embroidered handkerchiefs. In the washroom, I pumped water and cooled my face and neck with a damp washcloth. I considered writing a letter to my mother to announce my marriage but beyond a salutation, I could not think what to say. I certainly could not write the truth.
My new home is rustic, to say the least. The housekeeper resents my presence, and my stepson questions everything I do and say. My husband is a man who so unnerves me that I do not know what to make of him. Or of myself.

Lunch, a thick stew of red beans and rice, was on the front veranda since the kitchen was cluttered with laundry tubs. The breeze shifted the air from time to time as Oscar, Nan, Andre, and I crowded around the small round veranda table. The floorboards were warped from the sea air, and the table wobbled so much that Oscar had to slide yesterday’s newspaper under one of its legs. Flies buzzed and landed on our food. We waved them off but they didn’t go far. The space between Oscar and me was narrow and when his knee bumped mine, we both angled away from the other.

It was what we did so well. Last night, after our visit to the cemetery and the picnic in the sand hills, Oscar again worked in the barn until well after dark. In bed, he stayed on his side, and I kept to mine. I should be relieved, I told myself while we had our lunch, Oscar just inches from me. I should be grateful.

Lunch ended, and when Oscar got up to leave, giving Andre a quick smile and a nod to Nan, his gaze settled on me. In that instant, I felt yesterday’s caresses – his hand on the nape of my neck, his kiss. ‘Catherine,’ he said, tipping the brim of his hat. He left, and I was all at once warm and not just from the heat of the day.

Nan stood up, bumping the table, the dishes rattling. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well.’ She began to gather up the spoons, knives, and forks. ‘Young man,’ she said to Andre. ‘It’s nap time. Go get your blanket.’

‘But, Miss Nan, I’m not tired. Do I have to?’

‘We all have to do things we don’t like. That’s the way it is, the good with the bad.’ She gave me a sideways look. I patted my mouth with my napkin, composing myself. She turned back to Andre. ‘Go on, get your blanket. I’ve got laundry to do and it ain’t doing itself, I can tell you that.’

He did as he was told. This was their routine: commands and protests. Everyone here had a routine, doing things that must be done. For years, my life had revolved around music, the hours of practice with the ensemble seeming to pass by as mere minutes. But now, the only thing I had to do today was put dinner on the table and even that would be prepared by Nan. My life stretched before me, one vacant hour after the other.

The comfort of routine, I thought as Nan began to stack the lunch dishes. It was what Oscar turned to, seeming to escape to the barn every chance he had.

I picked up his drinking glass, then Andre’s. ‘I’ll wash the dishes,’ I said to Nan.

Nan and her brothers had left for the day, and I was bent over the open oven door trying to stoke the fire with bellows when Andre ran into the house. ‘Ma’am!’ he shouted. ‘Come see. Daddy said to come get you. Hurry!’

‘Is something wrong?’

He shook his head, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Come see!’ he said and then he pointed at me. ‘Your face is all red.’ Before I could tell him that it was impolite to point or to tell a woman that she was in a state of disarray, he was off, running out the door.

I closed the oven and went out onto the veranda. At the foot of the steps, the dogs and Andre circled around Oscar. ‘A yacht,’ Oscar said to me, grinning. He pointed to farther down the beach. Near St. Mary’s, a small ship was just past the breakers, closer to the shore than any I had seen before. Black smoke poured from its stack, and it moved so slow that at first glance, it appeared to be stationary.

‘Get your hat,’ Oscar said. ‘We’re going to the beach to get a good look. Hurry. Before it’s gone.’

‘But dinner. I need to heat the oven. And this sun. It’s still so terribly hot.’

‘It’s a yacht, Catherine. When was the last time you saw a yacht?’

‘Daddy,’ Andre said, pulling Oscar’s hand. ‘Can we go? Can we? Now?’

‘Andre, enough,’ Oscar said, his words sharp with impatience and exasperation. And not just because of Andre. His grin was gone as he looked up at me where I stood at the top of the steps. The ship was moving closer, its smoke a black plume against the sky.

‘My hat,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

‘Hurry,’ Oscar said, and I did. I’d heard the surprise in his voice; I saw it in his eyes. I had not pulled away.

The yacht was long but narrow, and the American flag at the back end – the stern, I recalled from my summers at Lake Erie – rippled as the ship steamed toward us. The sails on the three masts were rolled and tied, and toward the bow there was a small cabin with windows. In the middle of the yacht, a canopy shaded part of the deck. Barefoot, Oscar and Andre stood in the tide to get as close to it as possible, Oscar’s trousers rolled to just below his knees. I watched from farther back on the beach where I sat on a long piece of rough driftwood that bowed up a few feet above the soft sand. Oscar and Andre waved to the yacht, their arms raised high and sweeping back and forth, Oscar’s hat in his hand.

‘Hello,’ Andre called, the pitch in his voice high. It went all the higher when three people left the shade of the yacht’s canopy and came to the railing. One was a woman. Her skirt whipped around her legs. They waved, shouting, but their words were lost in the surf and in the rumbling hum of the ship’s engine.

They must be surprised to see us here on this isolated stretch of the island, I thought. We might look as exotic to them as they did to us. A farm family, they might think, the rooftop of the barn visible above the sand hills. To them, I imagined, we were common people with uncomplicated lives and few desires.

The yacht became smaller and smaller, its smoke a dark trail as it steamed up the island toward the city with its paved streets and buildings with wrought-iron balconies. ‘Goodbye,’ Andre called, the word stretched long. ‘Come back again.’

Oscar put his hand on the top of Andre’s head, then turned around toward me. I drew in some air, startled. A moment ago, he and Andre had been calling to the yacht. Now, there was something sharp about the way he looked at me. It was as though he was seeing how far back on the beach I sat, how my skirt was tucked around my legs, how tightly I had tied the ribbons of my sun hat. He began to walk toward me, leaving Andre in the ankle-deep tide.

Invite him to sit down, I thought. We can talk about the yacht, about the sweetness of Andre calling to it and the kindness of the passengers who returned his waves.

‘Catherine,’ Oscar said when he reached me. His hat in his hand, the wind blew through his brown hair. The sun was in his eyes and he squinted against it. For a moment, he looked past me as if searching for something. An odd expression, one that I couldn’t read, crossed over his face.

‘It’s been six days,’ he said, his gaze on me now.

‘Pardon?’

‘You’ve been here six days. Since Wednesday. And you haven’t felt the sand. Or the water. Haven’t even said you wanted to.’

The thought had never crossed my mind. ‘I—’

‘No, Catherine.’ He stood over me. The breeze caught at his clothes, and his shirt-sleeves and trousers beat against his skin. ‘You live here now. It’s time. Take off your shoes and stockings.’

‘Oscar.’

He didn’t say anything.

I struggled with the buttons on my shoes, unnerved by his abruptness. He watched as I pushed down first one stocking and then the other, trying to do this without raising my skirt and showing my legs. When I’d finished, I stood. The sand was deep and soft, and hot from the sun. Without saying anything, Oscar turned and headed toward the water. I walked behind him, my feet tender. I had not been barefoot in years.

Sand sprayed up from his heels as I followed him around driftwood, broken pieces of bottles and seashells, and orange seaweed that smelled of fish. Then we were on the hard-packed sand that was cool and wet but solid. He went to the tide line where Andre crouched, studying tiny holes in the sand that bubbled around the edges.

Oscar walked into the tide, the water coursing around his bare ankles. He turned around and faced me.

He was testing me, I understood. I could walk into the water and become part of this place. Or I could stay behind and the silence between us would only deepen.

He stood, waiting, his jaw set. He was prepared for me to turn back, I thought. He expected to be disappointed.

I gathered up my skirt and, bracing myself, I walked into the water. It rushed over my feet. It was warm, almost hot, not like the sharp coldness of Lake Erie. Oscar turned and walked a few more paces into the tide. I followed, the water above my ankles, and stood beside him.

He glanced down at me. The force of the water unbalanced me; my feet sank into the eroding sand. It was gritty against my skin and I curled my toes, gripping. The tide rushed out. I staggered, letting go of my skirt, reaching for Oscar and catching his arm. Lacy spindrift whirled around my legs and dragged my hem. I tightened my hold on his arm.

‘Take a step,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

I did, still holding on to him, the tide rushing in and out, everything off kilter, everything sinking.

‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry. For what happened on Thursday. I’m so very sorry.’

He stared at the horizon. He hadn’t heard, I thought. Or didn’t want to. The tide whirled around us, pulling and pushing. Before I could think twice, I let go of his arm and took his hand. I worked my fingers between his so that our palms were together. He looked at me, a small smile at the corners of his mouth, and nodded.

A sense of lightness swept over me, a release, a forgiveness. On the other side of Oscar, Andre jumped over a rippling shallow wave, swinging his arms and landing flat-footed.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Pelicans. Four of them.’

They glided just a few feet above the waves and all at once, Oscar laughed. It was deep and hearty, and infectious. I laughed too, something that I had not done in months, something that took me by surprise, both of us stumbling and falling against one another, but now holding on, not letting go as the sand washed out from beneath us.

That evening, I went to the back veranda while Oscar finished his work in the barn. Long streaks of orange, red, and purple lit the wide sunset sky, and the bayou glowed a silvery pink. Seagulls skimmed over the ponds in the pasture, their wings iridescent as the sun sank into the bayou.

It was all so vast, I thought. The sky, the water, and my life that lay before me. As though I were still on the beach, I felt the tide around my ankles, the sand eroding. I gripped the railing and watched Oscar leave the barn and take the path that led to the house. When he saw me, he slowed as if surprised.

I again felt the tide but this time my hand was in Oscar’s. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ I let go of the railing and walked to the top of the veranda stairs. There, I took the first step down.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Crystal Earrings

I played the upright the next morning, the music expressing what words could not.

I played concerto after concerto, believing that Oscar could hear each note while he worked in the barn. Andre was with him, and Nan was in the kitchen at the ironing board, one iron heating on the stove while the other one thumped as she pressed bed linens and shirts inch by inch. Yesterday it had been unimaginable to play the upright while she labored. Today, I was driven to do so, hearing the music as I had not heard it before.

It stayed with me after I’d closed the lid over the keys and sat on the front veranda, mesmerized by the gulf and by the rain showers that came in quick bursts, drumming on the roof, then stopping as suddenly as they had started. When Oscar and Andre came to the house for dinner – as Oscar called it – I went to him, our hands meeting for the briefest of moments, both of us understanding the need to maintain a façade of formality in the presence of Nan and Andre.

In the afternoon, the rain was dense and heavy, and the gulf had turned the color of pewter. I was on the veranda, an unopened book on my lap, and Andre was sprawled near my feet, napping on the blanket, when lightning splintered the sky. He bolted awake, his eyes wide with fright. ‘Andre,’ I said, reaching for him. Thunder boomed. He ran into the house and flung himself at Nan where she stood at the ironing board.

‘Don’t you start up crying,’ she said. I was in the doorway. Andre was wrapped around Nan’s legs, but her face was set and she held herself rigid, the iron in her hand. ‘Ain’t nothing but a little storm,’ she said. ‘Now you let go of me.’

Lightning cracked the air. Andre clutched Nan tighter and pressed his face into her skirt. ‘A storm,’ she said. ‘That’s all. Be a man.’ She put the iron down and gave him a little push. ‘I’ve got work to do.’