They call her Dana (2 page)

I tossed the last handful of grain into the air and left the coop, fastening the gate behind me. It seemed even warmer than before. My dress was soaking wet under the arras, and my whole body was bathed with a sheen of perspiration. My face was undoubtedly streaked with dirt, and my hair was filthy. I returned the pan to the shed and started back to the house, thinking about the dream, the mist, the man, recalling that pleasant, tingling ache I had felt when I woke up. What did it all mean? Why did I keep dreaming the same dream? I was eager to ask Mama Lou about it.

Back in the kitchen, I discovered that the kettle wasn't steaming. Damnation, I thought, opening the door of the stove. The fire had gone out. I had to start it again, jabbing vigorously with the iron poker. I could hear loud clumping noises down the hall. My stepbrothers were awake, banging about as they always did first thing in the morning, ignoring the fact that Ma was so ill and needed her sleep. Sod the bastards, I tfiought angrily. They

had no consideration whatsoever, never had a thought for anyone or anything but their own greedy appetites.

Jalce came tramping in fifteen minutes later, brushing locks of dark blond hair from his brow. He was a tall, hefty brute with a square jaw, sullen blue eyes and a nose that had been broken more than once. Jake was a ruffian, the terror of the swamps. Liked nothing better than a good rowdy fight, a grin on his thick lips as he smashed a jaw or broke an arm. He was wearing old boots and snug gray breeches and an old blue silk shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrists. It bagged over the waistband of his breeches where he had tucked it in loosely. Perverse as it seemed, a lot of girls found him exciting, and Jake never suffered for lack of tail.

"Momin'," he growled, giving me a surly look.

"You and Randy might try to be a little quieter when you get up," I said coldly. "You know Ma's ill."

"Don't ride me," he snarled.

"You don't care, do you? It doesn't matter to you that—"

"Shut up, slut."

"Go sod yourself," I retorted.

"You're gettin' awfully lippy, girl. You don't watch it, one-a these days I'm liable to bust your mouth for you."

"Try it. You don't scare me none. I'll kick your balls so hard you won't never be able to have another whore."

Jake scowled, remembering the tryst behind the pigsty, remembering what I had done to him that time. Like most bullies, Jake picked only on the weak and defenseless, and he knew I was neither. He glared at me with blue eyes full of hatred, full of lust, too. I was the only giri around these parts Jake hadn't had his way with, either by force or with consent, and the fact that I was his stepsister didn't mean a thing. He wanted me, all right, but he knew full well I'd make good my threat.

"You think you're somethin', don't-ja?" he said.

"Maybe I do."

"Think you're better'n anyone else 'cause you can read some and write your name down and speak frog-talk. That don't mean nothin', wench. You're a swamp giri, just like th' rest of 'em, good for nothin' but spreadin' your legs for a man an' cookin' his food for him. One day I'm gonna—"

"You're gonna what?" Randy asked, strolling into the kitchen.

"I'm gonna show this lippy little wench what's what."

Randy chuckled. "That I'd like to see. I remember th' last time you tried to show her somethin'. Better keep it in your breeches, brother. You ain't no match for Dana."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Randy drawled.

He grinned and gave me a fond, playful look that didn't fool me for a minute. Randy came on all friendly and easygoing, but he was every bit as bad as Jake, only wily. Tall and lanky, he had a lean face with sharp, foxlike features and his father's auburn hair. His blue eyes were teasing, and a grin usually played on his wide lips, but Randy was, if anything, even meaner than his brother, cool and determined when in a fight or after a girl's favors. He was brighter than Jake, a sly, conniving scoundrel whose amiable mien was dangerously deceptive. Randy wore scuffed brown boots and tight, faded brown breeches and a silk shirt like Jake's, only tan.

"Hey, Dana," he said amiably, "when you gonna bake us another one of them peach pies?"

"I ain't got time to bake no pies," I retorted. "Besides, there ain*t any more peaches."

"Me an' Jake are goin' to town this momin', takin' the old sow and three piglets to market. I could pick up some peaches. I sure would like ya to make me one of them pies.''

"Sod off," I said.

"Aw, come on, Dana. Don't be ugly this momin'. I'm feeling real good. Just seein' my purty li'l sister makes me feel grand."

"Yeah, we can see it budgin' in your breeches," Jake told him. "Save it for Annie Cooper, 'less you wanna find yourself feedin' th' alligators. Li'l sister ain't havin' none."

"She'll come round," Randy assured him. "None of 'em can resist me for long."

Ignoring them both, I took the hoecakes off the stove and started frying the eggs. Jake and Randy sat down at the battered old wooden table and poured themselves strong black coffee from the heavy blue pot I set down. Randy began to butter the hoecakes.

"Your father come in last night?" I asked him.

Randy shook his head. "Reckon he'll be back sometime this momin'. Reckon he was too occupied to make it back last night."

' 'He can whistle for his breakfast,'' I snapped. ' 'After I finish this, I ain't about to start cookin' again."

" 'Magine he won't be thinkin' about food," Jake said. " 'Magine he'U-uv had his fill."

I knew what they were talking about. I knew where Clem O'Malley had spent last night, same place he'd spent any number of nights since Ma took ill. Jessie was a mulatto, a free woman of color who had her own shanty in the swamps. She must have been at least thirty, and she painted her face and wore an old red silk gown and had dangling gold hoops in her ears. Many of the men hereabouts went to see her when they had the money, and she did a brisk business, often taking produce or chickens or a piglet if the man didn't have cash. My stepbrothers had visited her, too, I knew, and she had shrieked to high heaven when they refused to pay. Jake had slapped her across the face and called her an old nigger whore, and Randy broke one of her chairs and kicked a hole in her screen door. They were a charming pair, all right, no question about it.

I slammed the plate of fried eggs down on the table and they began to eat greedily, talking about their plans for the day. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sipped it as I made Ma's porridge and toast. I never ate anything myself early in the morning, contented with one or two cups of coffee. Jake and Randy made fast work of their food and stomped out. I could hear the piglets squealing a few minutes later as I prepared Ma's tray: a bowl of porridge with cream, a pat of butter melting in its center, two slices of buttered toast on a blue saucer, a small pot of crab apple jelly and a glass of milk. I wished I had some flowers to put on the tray, but I hadn't had time to go into the swamp and pick any of the wild orchids.

Ma sat up as I entered her room. The curtains were parted and a warm ray of sunlight fell across her bed. How frail she looked, how drawn, but her color was bright, two pink spots glowing on her cheeks, her hazel eyes alight with a feverish sparkle. She smiled warmly, but I could see that it took a big effort. How beautiful she must have been as a young woman, I thought. Vestiges of that beauty still remained, despite the battering of privation and hardship. Her graying honey-colored hair was damp with perspiration, pulled back from her face and worn in a loose plait.

I renamed her smile. When I was with Ma I felt all tender and

gentle inside. I didn't have to keep my defenses up and pretend to be tough. I could be myself, be Dana, knowing those fragile feelings inside wouldn't be taken as a sign of weakness, wouldn't be ridiculed. How nice it would be if we could always be ourselves, I thought, without any need of putting up a front to protect us from the world.

"Good morning, my darling," Ma said in French. We usually spoke to each other in that language.

"Momin', Ma. I've brought your breakfast."

"Just—just set it on the table beside the bed, darling. I—I'll eat it a little later on."

"But the porridge will get cold," I protested, "and I brought some of the crab apple jelly I made last year. I've been savin' it, hidin' it from Clem and the boys so you could have it."

"That was lovely of you, but—"

"Please try and eat some, Ma. You gotta keep up your strength. You didn't eat hardly nothin' yesterday, and—and it worries me."

Ma smiled again, a resigned smile, then nodded, and I placed the tray carefully across her knees. She looked at the food as though it were some kind of obstacle she must surmount. I sat down beside the bed and watched anxiously as she took a few bites of porridge and nibbled on a piece of toast. She took a sip of milk and indicated I should take the tray away. I removed it reluctantly from her knees and set it on the bedside table.

"I—I'll try to eat more later," she whispered. "I promise."

"At least drink the milk. Ma."

"I will, my darling. Later."

"I heard you coughing during the night," I said. "Was—did you cough up any—"

I couldn't bring myself to say the word "blood." Ma shook her head, smiling yet again as though I were being frightfully silly.

"It was just—just a little cough, didn't—didn't amount to anything. I don't want you worrying, my darling. I'm going to be all right."

"Course you are," I assured her. "I'm going to see Mama Lou this morning and get some more of that medicine. It—it'll help, I know it will. Mama Lou said it'd make you feel easy, and it did, didn't it? You'll be feeling as fit as can be in no time."

Ma nodded, pretending to believe the lie, just as I did. I took her hand and held it, loving her so, feeling so helpless, so lost. Ma looked at me with those curiously glowing eyes, and I could see the sadness in them, the fear. I knew the fear was not for herself, but for me.

"My poor baby," she said in a weak voice. "What is going to become of you?''

"I'm not a baby, Ma. I'm seventeen years old, and I'm tough. I know how to take care of myself, always have."

"You're so beautiful," she whispered. "Even in that ragged pink dress, even with dirt on your face. You have—you have something rags and dirt can't disguise. I—when I was young, I-"

"You're still young," I told her. "You're only thirty-eight. That isn't old. You're still beautiful, too," I added, smoothing a wisp of damp honey-blond hair from her brow.

"You look so—so like ..."

She paused, and her lovely hazel eyes took on that faraway look. I could see her remembering, see the present melting away before her, a wistful expression on her face as the past shimmered in memory.

"I had it, too," she continued, slipping into that dreamworld, not really speaking to me at all. "I had that something special-like you—allure, I suppose you would call it. So many beaux flocking around like—like bees around a pot of honey, all of them handsome, wealthy, from the very best families, and I could have had any of them. ..."

Her voice grew fainter, her eyes wistful.

"I could have had any of them," she continued after a moment, "but I had eyes only for him, and he—he was like a god. If only he hadn't ..."

She paused again, looking at me through the mists of time.

"And he never knew about you," she whispered. "My little girl."

"Who, Ma? Who is'he'?"

Ma ignored the question. "My little girl should be wearing fine kidskin shoes and a flowered muslin firock, attending an academy for young ladies, preparing to take her place in society. There should be teas and garden parties—the garden was so lovely, the azaleas and magnolia and, oh, the wisteria, spilling over the old gray stone walls like pale purple lace. ..."

She fell silent, remembering, and I held her hand tightly, left out, wanting so desperately to hear more about that worid she had icnown so long ago, before I was bom. Why wouldn't she share it with me? Was there some . . . some terrible secret she felt must be kept from me? Questions were of no avail. Ma always evaded them. I knew she had come from a place called New Orleans—she had let that slip once—but I had no idea where it might be. Far away from here, I knew, far beyond the swamps. It was a place with perfumed gardens where ladies wore silk gowns and fine carriages bowled down the cobbled streets. It wasn't likely I'd ever see such a place. Might as well be the moon.

Ma sighed and looked at me, seeing me now, the past vanished. I squeezed her hand tightly.

"Was I—"

"You were driftin', Ula."

"Sometimes—sometimes it seems like ..." She hesitated, frowning. "Like I'm no longer here," she whispered. "My poor baby. What—what will you do when I'm—when I'm no longer here?"

"That—that ain't gonna be for a long, long time," I said firmly, but my voice trembled nevertheless.

"I saw a redbird this morning," she told me.

"A cardinal? But, Ma, there ain't no—"

"I woke up and looked out the window and it was perched on a branch, looking at me—waiting for me, it seemed. It was bright, bright scarlet, the color of—of blood."

"You must of imagined it. Ma.''

"It was very beautiful. I—I wasn't afraid."

"Ma-"

"I wonder what it means?"

Ma frowned again, her delicate brows pressing together, and I felt a terrible fear inside. I gnawed my lower lip, still gripping her hand. Several moments passed and then Ma pulled her hand free and placed it above her bosom and then began to cough, pulling out the handkerchief she kept tucked under her pillow. It was large and white and streaked with reddish-brown stains that hadn't been there last night. I quickly fetched another one from the bureau drawer, and she took it and continued to cough wretchedly. When the spell finally subsided, the fresh handkerchief had bright scarlet stains on it. Ma looked up and saw the

expression on my face and shoved the handkerchief under her pillow. I poured a glass of water for her and she took it with a trembling hand and sipped and finally handed it back to me.