The Storm (31 page)

“Molly, I have to tell you something. We've been waiting until you gained some strength, and Mrs. Russell wanted me to break the news.”

She glanced out the window, Jaq's tone filling her with dread. “What news? Has he—”

“He died of influenza three weeks ago, and they buried him a few days later. They couldn't wait any longer. His last words were, ‘Take care of Patrick.'”

Now she remembered thinking Patrick had died…but it had been Mr. James. She'd been a terrible wife, regretting marrying him and not even caring that she'd lost the diamond he'd been so proud of. Memories of their courtship, their conversations, and his kindness flooded her. How could such a gentle man simply vanish like that? What kind of a God could be so cruel?

How could she raise Patrick by herself? What would she do now? She sobbed, and the coo of the dove she'd heard earlier became the shriek of a hawk.

*

Jaq caught Molly before she fell. After tucking her into bed again, she hurried out to let Mrs. Russell know what had happened.

“How did she take it?”

After she explained how Molly had reacted, Mrs. Russell frowned. “That gal needs to get up and go back to work. Patrick needs her, and her fainting and falling out sure won't help him get over losing his pa. The two of them should be over the worst of the flu now, and I thank you kindly for helping with them. It won't be easy without James, but I'll make do, like I always have.”

Her face looked more lined than the last time Jaq had paid attention to her.

“Molly and Patrick musta caught the influenza from Eric and Angus, and brought it home to James. All the papers have been telling folks not to go anywhere near big cities like Dallas and San Antonio. And they've been saying that most of the ones dying are men between twenty and forty-five. Mighty strange. Usually the old folks and the youngsters die. Anyhow, you'd think Eric and Angus would have been more careful.”

She tucked up a stray hank of hair that had escaped from the tight knot on the back of her head.

“I know losing James is hard on Molly, but after my husband died I didn't lay around and feel sorry for myself. Had to keep going for the children.”

Mrs. Russell's unfair accusations made Jaq bristle. Molly had just regained consciousness after a near-fatal illness and didn't give any indication of feeling sorry for herself. Judging from Molly's shocked expression, she was concerned only with Mr. James and Patrick. “We all have to deal with loss in our own way, and I don't know what Molly's is. But she's stronger than you think. She'll pull through.”

Mrs. Russell jumped up and stalked back into the house, but Jaq gazed toward the field where some of the few men still alive, both black and white, picked cotton.

So many men dead. All her fault. If she hadn't—

“Jacqueline, telephone,” Mrs. Russell yelled from the house.

No one knew she'd been staying over here except Mother. She hurried inside, knowing that her mother would telephone her only if she had bad news.

Her hand shook as she took the receiver that Mrs. Russell held out. “Hello.”

She was right. “Oh, no, Mother. Not him too. I'll be there as soon as I can. Good-bye.” She slowly placed the receiver on its hook, rushed down the hall to Molly's bedroom, and peered inside. Molly hadn't moved. Had she had a relapse? How long would it be before she roused again?

She turned to Mrs. Russell, who stood behind her. “It's my father. Mother says he's been really sick. I need to leave right now and drive home. I don't want to disturb Molly. I'm sure she still needs to rest. Please tell her good-bye for me and explain what's happened. I'd appreciate it if you'd give her Mother's number and ask her to call me there in about a week.” She scrawled it on a lined sheet of paper.

As she drove to the McCades' house, her mind spun faster than the flywheel on her Model T. Would Mrs. Russell give Molly her message and her phone number? Surely she wouldn't be so cruel not to. Why hadn't she stayed and explained to Molly why she had to leave so suddenly?

She stopped in the McCades' driveway, tempted to turn around and do just that. But what if Molly refused to see her? What if Molly blamed her for causing Mr. James to die and putting Patrick in danger? Molly would probably be in a better mood to talk after she'd recovered from the flu completely and mourned for Mr. James.

If she didn't hear from Molly in several weeks, she'd assume the worst about Mrs. Russell and call Molly. But now, she had to leave. She ran into the house and closed all the windows and doors. Then she pulled on trousers and a man's shirt, loaded her Model T, and was on the road within an hour. As she drove past the Russells' house, she had to force herself not to turn into their driveway, but seeing her dressed like this would only antagonize Mrs. Russell. No, it was better to wait, she kept telling herself all the way to New Orleans, hoping she hadn't been a coward but knowing that she had.

*

Does he expect me to come trotting down this driveway like a pony?
The day after Jacqueline left, the mailman sat at the Russells' mailbox and honked his horn nonstop. When Mother Russell got there, huffing and puffing, he handed her a letter. “This here's for Miss Jacqueline. I heard she left yesterday, and I didn't know where to forward it to.”

“I'll take care of it.” She snatched the letter from him and studied it as she plodded back up to the house. It was written in a strange hand, and the return address was Homer, Louisiana. After she eased the envelope open she pulled out a long letter written on the fanciest lilac stationery she'd ever seen. Even had a sweet scent to it.

She read through it right quick, just to get the gist of it and make sure it was worth sending on, and almost dropped it. Why, it was from some colored hussy named Willie. She said she'd left New Orleans and gone to Louisiana to visit her ma, and after the War ended she aimed to go to France, where folks would treat her decent in spite of her great-grandmother being a slave. What a downright foolish notion. Everything would be a mess overseas for quite a spell.

But something else about the letter nagged at her, like a bad smell coming from the outhouse, so she read it again, slower this time. This Willie kept talking about how much she'd miss Jacqueline, how sweet she smelled, how soft she felt—like they'd been…sweethearts, or some such. Her breath stopped, like one of the mules had kicked her in the chest.

That was it. She'd always figured something wasn't right with Jacqueline, but she hadn't been able to see it because of that pretty face. She'd heard folks whisper about women who liked women more than they did men, in that kind of way. Gol-darn it, if this Willie and Jacqueline weren't that kind of pervert, she'd eat her own hat. And here Jacqueline had been trying to influence Molly to be just like her, right under her nose.

She stuffed the letter back into its envelope. “Law me. I'm sure not gonna call Jacqueline about this letter or give her phone number to Molly now,” she told herself. “She's a worse influence than I ever suspected. I'll keep this right here in the bottom of my old trunk. I'd rather let Molly and Patrick associate with the devil himself than with that abomination.”

*

Molly didn't hear any birds, only silence and an occasional frog's mournful croak. Where was Jaq? She'd been here both of the other times she'd waked up, but now the rocking chair she'd sat in was as empty as Molly felt. Had Jaq taken care of her the entire time she'd been sick? She seemed to have, but Molly couldn't be sure. Maybe she was exhausted and had gone back to the McCades' for a rest. Pretty soon she'd drive up and Molly could breathe easy again.

As she slowly washed her face in cold water, she glanced in the mottled mirror above the china washbowl. Her hair looked like weathered pine straw, her eyes the color of dust. She pulled on a simple housedress and wandered out the front door and into the rose garden. The roses, all the same dull color, had lost their odor, like Jaq had complained of when she was laid up. Their thorns even looked bigger and sharper than usual.

She trudged aimlessly down to the pond. As she approached, the snapping turtles slid into the water with a quiet splash. The pine trees had lost most of their needles and resembled toothpicks holding up the gray bowl of a sky.

Finally, she meandered toward the barn, to the pigpen where Mother Russell and Patrick were slopping the hogs.

“Sure glad you finally decided to get up, Molly. It's not easy for me and Patrick to do all these chores by ourselves.”

Mother Russell's words barely registered as she walked into the kitchen and slipped into her apron. Mr. James was dead. Had Jaq deserted her too? What would happen to her now without either Mr. James or Jaq?

Her mind fluttered like the wings of a moth trapped in a Mason jar. She could leave the farm. Take Patrick and go live with her parents in Dallas until she got a job. But she was so tired.

Maybe Jaq would ask her to go away with her. If she did, it might be better to stay here until she and Patrick both regained their health. But did Jaq truly want them? Mother Russell said Eric and Angus had died, so maybe Jaq was back in New Orleans now with the woman she knew there, planning to go to Paris with her.

Molly took a deep breath as she began to wash the dirty dishes piled in the sink. She needed to settle down, to wait and see if Jaq got in touch before she decided what to do now.

*

Jaq fingered her scar as she mechanically drove toward New Orleans. Mr. James, Eric, and Angus would still be alive if she hadn't gone to New Hope. Henry would still be alive if she hadn't gone to France. And even Grandfather might still be alive if she hadn't run outside after her dog.

Mother was right. She should never have gone out in that storm, but she hadn't listened. And she should never have left New Orleans. If she'd stayed there, married an upstanding citizen and had his babies, her life would be smooth right now.

She drove until she was exhausted and stopped at a hotel. After a big meal she went to her room and fell into bed. She didn't look forward to returning home. She'd rather be back in New Hope taking care of Molly and Patrick. She missed them so much she'd almost turned around a dozen times and driven right back to New Hope.

How she'd love to see Molly come running toward her as she drove up, to see her soft smile and her gleaming eyes. But had the smile and the gleam died? She had to find out, but she needed to wait until she felt like she deserved someone as wonderful as Molly and to be sure that Molly didn't blame her for what had happened.

The deserted streets gave Jaq the willies when she finally arrived in New Orleans. She thought about Galveston after the Storm as she headed for her parents' home on St. Charles Avenue.

Her mother looked much the same—tall, slender, immaculate—but welcomed her so warmly Jaq almost expected her to hug her. She wore her hair in a different style. As far back as Jaq could remember, her mother's maid had tugged her long black hair back and up over her ears and spent hours curling it with tongs into fancy creations, especially when she dressed for a dinner party. What a waste of time. But now it covered her ears and was pulled back gently to follow the shape of her head. With its soft, natural curl, it had to be a lot easier to fix.

As they sat in the parlor, her mother immediately said, “
Mon Dieu.
It looks as if both your brothers, they are safe. Surely the War, she will end soon, and they will return to their wives and babies.” Then she blurted, “Earlier this month, your father had to go to the docks to meet a steamer that left Boston two weeks earlier.”

“Yes, Mother. Doesn't he do things like that all the time?” Why mention something so mundane?

She set down her cup of tea more forcefully than usual. Mother never lost her temper. “
Oui
, but this time three passengers, they died during the trip, and fifteen became ill, as did six crewmen. All of them, they complained of a bad cough and pain all over their bodies. Your father should have turned around at once when he heard the news. But, of course, man that he is, he went aboard to meet the man with whom he had an appointment.”

Jaq sipped her warm tea. She must have inherited her stubborn streak from him, but that was nothing new. Mother had pounded that fact into her head forever. She supposed she'd had to discover it for herself. And her mother was most likely right about something else. That steamer probably brought the epidemic to New Orleans, and even Father's obstinacy couldn't hold out against it.

“Me, I have never witnessed anyone so ill,” her mother said, seeming chilled in spite of the warm, humid weather of late October. “His fever. Ah, his forehead practically scalded my hand. He threw his nightstand and his chamber pot across the room. Later he told me he had thought the two of them were ridiculing him for being so weak. Can you imagine? That's when I telephoned you. I could not stand it any longer.”

She tried to laugh, but her quavering voice revealed everything Jaq needed to know. Mother, always so strong, had feared the man she'd lived with so long. Her mother moved closer to the light on the end table, which illuminated the new lines in her once-smooth complexion, the black smudges under her dark eyes.

“His fever, how do you say it, finally broke last night, and he is resting easier today. Me, I am so glad you are here. And I am sure he will be also. I need you to help me keep him away from the windows. All month the priests have been driving their horse-drawn carts down St. Charles, calling for everyone to bring out the bodies of their family members who died during the night.”

Her mother rose and paced back and forth. Jaq should have been here sooner. How had her mother managed? “Why didn't you get in touch with me before now? Did the doctor help you with Father?”

“Bah. When he first became ill, one doctor told me to sprinkle sulfur in my shoes and put silver dollars in my pockets every morning to kill the germs. If the silver dollars changed color, the sulfur was working, he said. I did not try his ridiculous remedy because I was too busy taking care of your father. And most of our neighbors who did died anyway. I wrote you several letters but finally decided to call. I am tired.”