Cane River Part 3

"I think I should get back now, M'sieu." Her voice sounded thin and tinny to her own ears.

"Just stay here with me for a little bit until I catch my breath. I might not be able to find my way back without you."

The frightful pounding behind Suzette's small b.r.e.a.s.t.s would not slow its pace. She wanted to run but was afraid of insulting such a close friend of the master and mistress's. And he had said her dress was pretty.

"The music will guide you back."

"Just give me a minute, Suzette."

He sat on the rock, in no particular hurry.

"You seem different tonight than you do in the house," Eugene said. "Why is that?"

"Mam'zelle Oreline and I practiced the steps of the quadrille for the soiree last summer. I hadn't had a chance to dance them so much before."

"I see. You dance them as well as any I've seen. Even in France."

"Really?"

"Oui. When I saw you dance, you reminded me of my home in France. A town called Bordeaux. I miss it." When I saw you dance, you reminded me of my home in France. A town called Bordeaux. I miss it."

Suzette was curious. "Why would I remind you of France, M'sieu Eugene?"

"In France, they are full of life. You are full of life." Eugene patted a spot next to him on the rock. "Come, sit next to me for a moment."

What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do? Was he making fun of her? Did the Derbannes know he was here with her, talking like this? Suzette edged closer toward the rock. "It isn't right, M'sieu Eugene. I can just stand."

"Nonsense," Eugene said. "You're cold. No more discussion. Come here."

Suzette cautiously balanced herself on the far flat edge of the rock, sitting but leaning away from the doll man.

Eugene moved closer to Suzette and put his coat around her. "I think you are so vibrant, Suzette. So full of joie de vivre. You make me forget myself."

She was trembling and could think of nothing to say.

"The Derbannes say you are a good Catholic girl. Maybe you weren't thinking so much of the church when you were dancing tonight, eh? You have babies yet, little Suzette?"

"No, M'sieu." Babies? Babies were for after she and Nicolas Mulon made plans.

The moon's rays shimmering on the water's surface broke in odd places, confusing her. She felt rooted to this spot, Eugene now sitting by her side on her special rock, his arm around her shoulder. It wasn't real, being talked to in such soft tones by a white man with a last name. He shifted his position and rested his hand on her knee, as if it were his right. Would it show poor upbringing to protest? To run? Suzette stared at Eugene Daurat's little feet, unwilling to bring her eyes up any farther than that. Casually he reached under her dress, under her bloomers, his hand cold and deliberate against her bare skin. She heard the sound of his jagged breathing and smelled the sharpness of liquor as it oozed from his pores.

"Lay back, Suzette."

"I am a good girl, M'sieu."

"Yes, I am sure you are."

His voice didn't sound the same, as if it were coming from somewhere lower and deeper as he pressed her back onto the unforgiving rock. He moved above her, making strange noises in his throat while he undid the b.u.t.tons of his britches with his free hand. He was heavy for a man so small. Everything was moving slowly, as if it had nothing at all to do with her. Like during a bad storm when the water rose on the river so fast that you could only watch it spill the banks, and nothing any man did could stop it. He moved back and forth, back and forth, pinning her, and she froze in the inescapable certainty of the moment. Nicolas, she thought unexpectedly. Nicolas should come and pull the doll man away, take her back to the party, ask her to dance; but try as she might she could conjure up only his name and not the kindness of Nicolas's face. Eugene's knee pried her open and he pushed into her, delivering pain to a central place. He stayed on top of her, dead weight grinding her hip and shoulder into the rock, catching his breath as if he had run a long race, forcing her to breathe in the flat smell of brandy and cigars that escaped from him as she could not.

"Merci, ma chere," he said raggedly, but he still didn't move. he said raggedly, but he still didn't move.

When at last he got up from her, careful not to get mud on himself, he looked away and busied himself straightening his clothes.

"You'd better go back now and join the party," he said.

It was over. Suzette looked down, and even in the dull moonlight she could see that her beautiful white dress was streaked with traces of scarlet. She would need to wash it out in secret, she thought, make sure her mother never saw the stains. She needed to figure out how to change her dress and go back to the party before she was missed, what to do next. She wanted to ask the doll man his advice. The cold of the night pressed in as she waited for him to initiate some further connection, but he made no move toward her, had nothing else to say. Uncertain, with Eugene's back still to her, she forced herself up and started to walk in the direction of the music, listening for a sound, any sound, that would tell her the proper thing to do. There were party noises in the distance, festive sounds. She heard night calls from the woods, skittering creatures out prowling for food or trying to avoid becoming some bigger prey's next meal. There were river noises, gentle and soothing, as the edges of the water lapped at the red banks of the sh.o.r.e in a centuries-old ceremony of give-and-take.

But all that Suzette could make out was a sound just this side of hearing, like dreams drifting out of reach, slight as a soft spring wind.

4.

T he March winds arrived with an abrupt ferocity, buffeting the land and the workers in the field with equal determination. Before daybreak each morning the quarter emptied out and labor gangs split off and headed in separate directions, some holding down their hats, others with the wind whipping at the hems of their long, threadbare skirts. A set went off to the east, leading the oxen to lip up the cotton lots and to prepare the new season's beds for corn and potatoes. Another took off to the west to burn logs, shrub, and cut down last year's cornstalks. Even the quarter hands and half hands were pressed into service until dusk to pick up and clear the spent cornstalks or gather the manure behind the animals. By first weeding four weeks later, a hint of the coming warmth had begun to work its way inside the chill of the heavy Louisiana air. he March winds arrived with an abrupt ferocity, buffeting the land and the workers in the field with equal determination. Before daybreak each morning the quarter emptied out and labor gangs split off and headed in separate directions, some holding down their hats, others with the wind whipping at the hems of their long, threadbare skirts. A set went off to the east, leading the oxen to lip up the cotton lots and to prepare the new season's beds for corn and potatoes. Another took off to the west to burn logs, shrub, and cut down last year's cornstalks. Even the quarter hands and half hands were pressed into service until dusk to pick up and clear the spent cornstalks or gather the manure behind the animals. By first weeding four weeks later, a hint of the coming warmth had begun to work its way inside the chill of the heavy Louisiana air.

Suzette stayed low in the bushes and watched her sister Palmire and the other hoe women off in the distance, trudging out to the fields, balancing their heavy hoes over their shoulders. First light from the rising sun glinted off the heads of the hoes, broad as shovels and hammered out of pig iron. The tool took tremendous strength to lift and skill to manage, and her sister was considered one of the best. Deaf and dumb was not a liability in clearing weeds and thinning the newly sprung cotton seedlings.

A sour odor rose from the ma.s.s at Suzette's feet, threatening to wrench her stomach again, and she pushed herself up. It was the fourth time this week she had been forced out to the bushes before the plantation bell rang. There was breakfast to prepare, but all she wanted was to lie down right where she was, close her eyes, and sleep.

A morning breeze helped center her. Eugene Daurat was coming again today. He had become a regular visitor of the Derbannes, bringing her small things from time to time and giving them to her in the woods: a leftover piece of cloth from his store for a kerchief, a hard candy, the stump of a candle. In the big house she was invisible to him.

Since the quarter Christmas party, he sought her out whenever it struck his fancy. He would tell her to meet him after supper at the rock or to wait for him beyond the edge of the piney woods in the afternoon, and she would go. He barely spoke, and he did not expect her to do much of anything except lie or stand until he was finished with her. Each time they were together in that way, he would say, "Merci, ma chere." "Merci, ma chere."

Suzette tried to figure out what the doll man meant by those words. If he was thanking her, did that mean he thought she had a say in whether or not to obey his instruction to meet him? That she could say out loud that she did not want to lie down in secret while he fumbled and sometimes hurt her? Ma chere. Ma chere. No matter how often she played back the words, trying to hear a new tone or emphasis, his true intent was just beyond her grasp. Was she dear to him? When she went to him she transported herself to the smooth rhythm of sh.e.l.ling peas while her mother hummed in the cookhouse or the sleepy-eyed rea.s.surance of Nicolas Mulon's face. Just until he stopped moving on her and it was time to get back to work. No matter how often she played back the words, trying to hear a new tone or emphasis, his true intent was just beyond her grasp. Was she dear to him? When she went to him she transported herself to the smooth rhythm of sh.e.l.ling peas while her mother hummed in the cookhouse or the sleepy-eyed rea.s.surance of Nicolas Mulon's face. Just until he stopped moving on her and it was time to get back to work.

Questioning him was unthinkable. He was a grown man, a white man, and a close friend of the Derbannes'. She couldn't talk to her mother. She couldn't talk to Oreline, who prattled on about her older cousin Eugene's visits, how interesting he was, how entertaining. The secret rendezvous were not like the p.r.i.c.kly tingling Nicolas Mulon could set off in her. Those feelings scared her, too, but they had been full of possibilities. This was heavy, like the old rotted oak tree she had seen fall across the road near the front gate that took days and many men to carve up and move aside. She thought about talking to Palmire about the tangle of hope, despair, and emptiness that came to her whenever she saw Eugene Daurat or even heard his name, but there were no signs in the language they had created between them to describe these feelings. What could her sister tell her, even if she could speak? Palmire had her own worries with Louis Derbanne's nighttime visits.

It was months before she stopped puzzling over the hidden meaning of Eugene Daurat's "Merci, ma chere." "Merci, ma chere." The words meant only that he was done with her and it was time for her to go away and resume her ch.o.r.es under Francoise's watchful eye in the big house or her mother's in the cookhouse. But her daily routine had come to seem small and meaningless next to this other thing that was spreading out and taking hold of her body. She wondered if either Francoise or her mother, who both seemed to be able to see the smallest thing out of place in the big house, could see this, too. The words meant only that he was done with her and it was time for her to go away and resume her ch.o.r.es under Francoise's watchful eye in the big house or her mother's in the cookhouse. But her daily routine had come to seem small and meaningless next to this other thing that was spreading out and taking hold of her body. She wondered if either Francoise or her mother, who both seemed to be able to see the smallest thing out of place in the big house, could see this, too.

When her birthday month came around again in the summer she would be fourteen. She could still recall the delicious taste of turning nine, when it was possible to strike out in a direction of her own choosing, and Oreline and Narcisse would follow, open to whatever came next. It had begun to feel like a suspect memory that must have happened to someone else.

"Pay attention to what you're doing," Francoise snapped, catching Suzette on the side of the head with her knuckles.

Lately she was getting as many swats, slaps, and pinches as Palmire used to when she worked in the house, before she had been banished to the field. Suzette burned the bread. She scorched one of Louis Derbanne's shirt collars and mixed up the salt and sugar. The delicate blue-and-white figurine in the front room that Eugene Daurat had brought as a gift from France had smashed into so many pieces when she dropped it that there was no hope of repair. She forgot to clean out the wall altar in the Derbannes' bedroom.

Her life had traveled far beyond her understanding. The picture in her mind of standing in front of St. Augustine with Nicolas Mulon and being married by a real priest was obviously hopeless. Try as she might, she couldn't create an image of a future with Eugene Daurat in it. He could never marry her, even if he wanted to. Not only was it against the law, it was unspeakable. She had no new dreams to replace her old ones.

The longer she hid her secret, the greater the distance between her and everyone else, as if they were all on the close side of Cane River and she was on the opposite bank, alone. The thought of the baby frightened her but gave her comfort, too. It was a concrete thing that belonged only to her.

Suzette let each day drift, holding on to time. Shortly after the cotton reached a foot high in the field, Elisabeth cornered her in the cookhouse.

"Looks like you're eating for more than one, Suzette."

"Uh-huh," Suzette answered from her faraway place.

"Who's the man?"

Suzette brought herself back, eyeing her mother cautiously. "Wh-what do you mean?" she stammered.

"You can't hide it. Who's the man?"

"I did not want to, Mere." Mere."

"Is he white?"

Suzette tried to speak and found she could not. She stared down at her hands.

"The world didn't start with you, Suzette. I've been through it. In Virginia, with the Master's son, before coming here." Elisabeth put down the rolling pin. "It's Eugene Daurat, isn't it? Looking at you like you're some new Louisiana sweetmeat to try."

"Yes," Suzette said in a small voice.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Not much after the first time. I don't know. He chose me."

Elisabeth let out a low moan, a strangled sound steeped in resignation. "Oh, baby girl," she said.

"What do I do now?" Suzette asked.

"Your stomach twist up in the morning?"

"Yes'm."

"This baby is already caught. We wait for the quickening, to make sure it's going to stay caught."

Elisabeth came around the worktable and pulled Suzette close, wrapping her big arms around Suzette's shoulders, rocking her slowly from side to side. Suzette stiffened, but Elisabeth didn't let go. After a time Suzette sank into the warmth and smells of her mother, and they rocked together.

"This is what our life is, baby girl. It didn't stop me from loving those babies of mine in Virginia."

An urgent coldness shot through Suzette. She did not want to hear what had happened to her mother. She pushed herself away, picked up the sharp kitchen knife, and busied herself chopping the okra, separating the hard green caps from the stalks on the cutting board.

Elisabeth turned to stir the stew simmering in the kettle. "If I can see your condition, it won't be long before others do, too. When that Frenchman comes at you again, you tell him about this baby, that he should be leaving you alone now. We need to make sure that Madame knows it wasn't M'sieu. You turn up with a high-yellow baby without warning, there's no telling what she could do. It's bad enough trying to keep Palmire away from her. You just do your work. I'll go to her tomorrow."

Francoise left a trail of damp footprints as she came into the stranger's room, where Suzette had just finished scrubbing the floorboards. Francoise stared openly at the beginnings of a gentle rounding under the fabric of Suzette's thin gingham dress.

"Elisabeth came to see me," she began stiffly. "You were brought up better. We did not give permission for you to start a family yet. Who is the father?"

Suzette hung her head.

"You hear me, girl? I didn't bring you up to the house so you could slide back and be like Palmire. Who is the father?"

Francoise's tone had become loud and insistent, and she grabbed Suzette's arm. They were alone in the room, and Suzette was suddenly afraid.

"It was M'sieu Daurat. He told me not to say anything," Suzette said quietly.

Francoise gripped her more tightly. "It wasn't anyone from Rosedew?"

"No, Madame, I'm sure."

"Has there been anyone else? Do not lie to me, or I can get you put out to field like your sister." Francoise's narrowed eyes were menacing.

"There's only been M'sieu Daurat," Suzette said, her voice small and timid.

Francoise loosened her hold. "Another little mulatto mouth to feed." Francoise spat out the word mulatto mulatto as though she had gotten hold of one of the bitter herbs she used for doctoring. "We gave you every opportunity, Suzette. This is not the Christian way. You people cannot help yourselves, I suppose." as though she had gotten hold of one of the bitter herbs she used for doctoring. "We gave you every opportunity, Suzette. This is not the Christian way. You people cannot help yourselves, I suppose."

"Oui, Madame." Madame."

Suzette had trouble concentrating on her work for the rest of the day, afraid of what would come next. She was jittery throughout the evening, just wanting to lie down on her pallet without having to face anyone else, answer any more questions.

"You are so quiet, Suzette," Oreline said that evening when the two girls were alone in the bedroom. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, Mam'zelle."

"You have been acting odd of late. You can tell me. I tell you everything."

"There's nothing, Mam'zelle."

"It's first Friday," Oreline said conspiratorially. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Mam'zelle."

Oreline became solemn. Unsmiling, she extended her bare right foot and touched the flat of her heel to the wooden base of the four-poster bed, closing her eyes.

"Today, the first Friday of the month, I place my foot on the footboard and I pray the great Saint Nicholas to make me meet the one I am to marry," she recited soberly. Then she jumped into her bed without touching the floor, lay down on her right side, her hand over her heart, and made herself still so she could fall asleep without talking, without laughing, without moving.

Suzette lowered the mosquito bar over her and blew out the candles.

The next morning, as Suzette came back from the cookhouse, she almost ran into Francoise in the narrow hallway coming out of Oreline's room.

"Suzette," Francoise said tautly as she brushed past, and Suzette dropped her eyes and curtsied.

Oreline was standing beside the armoire, and Suzette went over to help her tighten the stays in her corset, trying to gauge Oreline's mood. Oreline seemed sulky and silent, anger collecting in her face as if it were building up to a storm.

"Aunt Francoise told me about the baby," she said, her words clipped.