They call her Dana (6 page)

The rays of sunlight coming through the kitchen windows were brighter now. It must be nearing twelve. I took the pork chops out of the larder and shucked three ears of com and peeled silky brown threads from the hard yellow grains. I dropped the ears into a pan of boiling water atop the stove and, brushing an errant honey-blond wave from my cheek, trimmed fat from the pork chops. Nine should be enough. Nine? I vaguely recalled Jake saying he and Randy wouldn't be home for lunch, they were going crayfishing with the Anderson boys. I put six of the pork chops back into the larder, carefully wrapping them in cheesecloth. I never ate at the table with the men. My stepfather would be lunching alone today.

I put the skillet on top of the stove beside the two pots and dropped a generous pat of grease into it. The plump pink pork

chops were soon sizzling and turning a satisfactory mauve-brown. I turned them with a long fork, then checked the bread. It was ready, a crusty golden brown. I removed both pans from the oven and set them on the windowsill to cool for a few minutes before turning diem out. Pausing at the window for a moment, I stared at the moss-hung trees and the sun-speckled patterns on the ground. From the bam came a metallic clanging noise as my stepfather repaired some farm tool. The noise ceased abruptly, and a moment later Clem sauntered out of the bam, wiping a hand across his brow.

He stood there in the sunlight in brown work boots and snug tan breeches, his loose white cotton work shirt tucked carelessly into the waistband. His auburn hair gleamed with dark, coppery highlights, and there was a sullen expression on that brutal, rough-hewn face so many women found attractive. He reminded me of a bull, incredibly strong and muscular, full of surging energy he could barely repress. He glanced at the house, scowling, his hands balled into fists now and resting on his thighs. He seemed to be contemplating something, debating some course of action, the scowl deepening as he did so.

I tumed away from the windows and checked on the pork chops and saw they were done. I took them out of the skillet and placed them on a plate, then I took the handle of the skillet with a thick cloth and poured the grease into a can, setting the skillet on the scarred oak countertop. I took the bread out of the pans and shced one of the loaves, moving by rote, here in the kitchen but not here at all. Every feeling I had was deadened. I had been encased in total numbness ever since Ma's death, but my mind still functioned and I still saw and observed and took mental note of all around me.

Clem O'Malley had not been kind to me since the funeral-he was incapable of kindness—but he had treated me with a strange deference, speaking to me in a gruff yet courteous voice. Whereas before he had snapped orders in a surly growl, he now made requests in a manner that, for Clem, might almost be considered polite. The boys' manner had changed, too. There were no more rowdy jests, no more suggestive leers. Both of them were unusually quiet in my presence, seemed uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, keeping their eyes lowered. Courtesy because of my loss? Hardly. Clem had spoken to them, telling them to mind themselves around me.

Leopards do not change their spots, I told myself, and people don't change overnight. Had I been capable of feeling, I might have been uneasy about this change of attitude toward me by my stepfather, but the numbness encased me, and I shuffled about doing my chores, blessedly free of feeling. I scooped buttery green beans onto the plate beside the pork chops, forked a tender ear of com out of the boiling water and put it on the plate, too. The back of my dress was wet now, and the petticoat beneath felt limp and heavy. I heard my stepfather coming into the house, and a moment later I felt his eyes on me as I buttered slices of bread and placed them on a saucer.

He didn't say anything. He merely stood there in the doorway, staring at me with an intensity I could feel even though my back was turned. I buttered another slice of bread and, inside of me, something started to tremble, a tiny quiver of alarm that somehow managed to make itself felt despite the numbness. I turned around, holding the saucer of bread. Clem seemed to fill the doorway, not that tall, true, but so large, so sturdy and muscular. His presence was almost overwhelming, like some invisible physical force vibrating in the air. I set the saucer of bread on the table.

"I just see one plate, girl," he said. "You ain't eating?"

"I ain't eating," I said in a flat voice.

*'You didn't have no breakfast, either."

"I wudn't hungry," I mumbled.

Clem tilted his chin down and lifted those dark blue eyes, looking at me with smoldering speculation. Broad shoulders leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, he raised one hand to his chin and began to rub his full, sensual lower lip with the ball of his thumb, his eyes continuing to devour me. Some of the layers of numbness seemed to fall away, and I felt another quiver of alarm, stronger this time.

"You gotta eat, girl," he said.

His voice was deep, and there was a husky catch in it, like a rough purr. Another layer of numbness fell away and then another, and deadened nerve ends vibrated with alarm. It was as though I were awakening from a long sleep, and instincts that had been dormant sprang back to life. I suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. The kitchen seemed smaller, seemed to close in on me, and I was acutely aware that there was no escape except through the door he blocked with his sturdy bulk.

"I had some combread yesterday," I told him.

"That ain't enough. You gotta keep up your strength."

"Don't worry about it, Clem. Your food is getting cold."

Clem hesitated for a moment and then sauntered over to the table and sat down. The chair creaked a little from his weight. He smelled of wet hay and leather and sweat. I noticed that his auburn hair was slightly damp, and the white cotton shirt clung moistly to the musculature of his back and shoulders. Out in the yard the chickens squabbled. The noise seemed to come from a very long distance. Clem started to eat, looking up at me now and then as I took the com and the beans off the top of the stove.

"Any applesauce?" he inquired.

"I shook my head. "I didn't have time to make any."

"You make tasty applesauce, Dana. I guess it's all that brown sugar and cinnamon you use. You're a right fine cook, come to think of it. You really know how to make a man's belly feel good."

I made no reply. Instincts were shrieking now. Get out, get out, leave at once. Run. Yet I knew I mustn't let him sense my uneasiness. I mustn't give him that advantage. How I wished Jake and Randy were here. Uncouth as they were, they would at least have dispelled this atmosphere of enforced intimacy. I didn't want to be alone with Clem. Ever.

"More green beans?" I inquired.

Clem nodded. I spooned more beans onto his plate. He watched me, those blue-black eyes taking in the full swell of my breasts, the smooth skin of my naked shoulders. I remmed to the counter and set the beans down, trying to still the quivers of alarm.

"I have chores to do," I said.

I turned around and started toward the door. As I passed the table, his hand flew up and strong, sinewy fingers clamped tightly around my wrist. When I tried to pull away, he tightened his grip even more, brutally squeezing flesh and bone.

"What's your hurry?" he asked gruffly.

' 'I told you, I got chores to do."

"They can wait. I want coffee. You got coffee?"

"I haven't made any."

"Make some coffee," he ordered.

Our eyes met, Clem's dark with blue.-black depths, my own cool and defiant. Those strong, warm fingers tightened a frac-

don more. I wanted to wince at the pain, but I stoically refused to do so. After a moment, he released my wrist. I rubbed it, still looking down into those hated eyes, and then I put water into the coffeepot, scooped coffee into it and set the pot on top of the stove. My wrist still throbbed painfully. I would have to brazen it out, I knew. If I backed down now, if I let him win, I would be at his mercy. I couldn't let him intimidate me.

"More com?" I asked.

"Reckon I could use another ear."

I put it on his plate and turned back to the counter, wiping at it with a damp cloth, trying to keep occupied, aware of those eyes watching every move I made. Clem finished eating and wiped his mouth with a napkin. The coffee began to boil on top of the stove, its fragrant aroma wafting on the air. Clem pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair, well fed, looking rather indolent now.

"Yeah," he said, "you're a right fine cook. You're gonna make some man a good wife one-a these days."

"I ain't interested," I told him.

"No?"

"Not in the least."

"That's 'cause you don't know what it's like bein' with a man," he said. "Bein' with a man can be—better'n applesauce, better'n anything. You don't know what-ja been missin', girl."

I felt a warm flush tint my cheeks. Clem noticed it. The faintest suggestion of a grin curled on his full lips, and his blue-black eyes seemed to gleam with secret amusement. He enjoyed de-vilin' people, enjoyed making them feel uneasy. He was like a cat cruelly toying with a mouse, I thought, but I wasn't a mouse. I gave him a frosty look.

"You're gonna love it," he promised.

"I'm willin' to wait for the right man," I said.

"Yeah?"

"An' he ain't gonna be swamp trash like the men around here."

"Hold yourself pretty high, don't-ja?"

"Indeed I do."

"Think that cherry's some priceless jewel. You ain't no dif-ferent'n any other wench, girl. Prettier'n most, maybe, but that don't make you no bloody princess. Tail's tail in the dark."

"You should know, Clem."

It was bold of me, but Clem didn't seem to mind at all. That faint suggestion of a grin flickered on his lips again. He shifted his position in the flimsy chair, broad shoulders rolling. He enjoyed his reputation with women. No man in the swamp was more successftil with 'em, and no man treated 'em with more cavalier disdain.

'*You look just like your ma," he suddenly observed.

A sharp pain seemed to thrust inside me. The protective numbness was completely gone now, and I was a prey to all the emotions I had managed to repress before.

"Yeah," he continued, "you're the spittin' image of her. Same honey-colored hair and hazel eyes. Same lush body. When I first seen her, I thought she was the fetchin'est woman I ever clapped eyes on. Wearin' yellow silk, she was, carryin' one of them yellow silk parasols trimmed with white lace. She was visitin' Miss Amanda at the plantation. Didn't even notice me, of course. I was a lowly overseer, shouldn't even-a been lookin' at two such highborn young ladies."

So it was true. My ma was quality. I had known it all along, even though she had always refused to discuss her hfe before Clem. He knew about her background. He could tell me all I needed to . . . If I could find out the name of her family, I. . . I might somehow be able to . . . Using the thick cloth as a holder, I took the cofleepot off" the stove and poured the dark, steaming brew into a chipped white cup.

"I always knew Ma was a lady," I said quietly, setting the cup of coffee in front of him.

"Wudn't such a lady next time I seen her—two years must-a gone by, and I went to town to get some provisions one day and happened to go into one of them waterfront hotels for a drink. I seen her sittin' in the lobby, her bags beside her. They were throwin' her out. Seems her fancy man had gone ofl" and left her all alone. Her folks back in New Orleans had already disowned her. She didn't have a penny to her name, didn't have no one to turn to. I went over to her and introduced myself, said I recognized her, asked if I could be of some kinda assistance. I never will forget them hazel eyes gazin' up at me, all fuUa tears. I paid up her hotel bill and took her in to dinner, and three weeks later she became Mrs. Clem O'Malley."

"I-Isee,"Isaid.

"Your ma never told-ja anything about it, did she? Didn't

want you to know what really happened. Guess you thought she was married to your pa. Guess you thought he'd died, thought your ma was a widow when she married me. She wudn't no widow."

*'My father-"

**E)on't know anything about him. Just know he was some fancy man her family didn't approve of, know she ran off with him and lived with him for several months without th' benefit of cleigy. He knocked her up and then did a vanishin' act. It's an old, old story—happens all the time."

He paused to take a sip of coffee, carefully observing my reactions to his words. I tried to show none. Ma had loved the man she called Robert. She hadn't married him, but . . . she had probably believed they would be married soon. I couldn't blame her for what she had done. They said love was an overwhelming emotion, said it made you do things you'd ordinarily never dream of doing, and I wasn't going to pass judgment. I might fall in love one day. I might do something even worse than what Ma had done.

"So you married her," I said in a flat voice.

"She needed someone to give his name to the bastard she was carryin' inside her, and I needed someone to look after my two motheriess boys, so we made a bargain. She came back to the plantation she used to visit as a guest, this time as the wife of the overseer. It was humiliatin' for her, of course, but Clarisse wudn't in no position to complain. She was damned lucky to get me."

Clem didn't scowl, showed not the least sign of anger. He merely took another sip of coffee, looking at me with dark, thoughtful eyes. What desperation Ma must have felt to have married such a crude, sullen brute. What misery he had dealt her. I hated him with all my heart and soul, and I longed to claw his eyes out, but he had information I needed to know. I took his empty plate and the saucer of bread off the table, setting them on the counter.

"What was my mother's family name?" I asked, ever so ca-'^ual.

"Whatta you wanna know that for?"

"I—I'd just like to know."

"Wouldn't do you no good. Whatta you think, think you might go to New Orleans an' track 'em down? That's rich, girt. Them

Creole families are haughty as royalty, think they are royalty, and they're totally unforgiving. Clarisse was brought up like a princess, and when she defied her folks, when she ran off with her fancy man, they disowned her completely. Think they'd have anything to do with her bastard?"