Property (Vintage Contemporaries) Read online

  I was never allowed, as most planters’ children were, to play with the negro children on our farm. Father considered it a perverse practice that resulted in a coarsening of the master’s children and was the source of inappropriate expectations in the negroes, who must feel themselves the equals of their playmates. This familiarity could breed naught but contempt, Father maintained, and so I learned to make companions of my dolls.

  Above all, Father deplored the practice of some of his neighbors, who paraded about the town with their mulatto children in tow. That these men were often to be seen singing in church on Sunday morning was one more reason, Father maintained, to have nothing to do with religion. Religion was for the negroes, he said; it was their solace and consolation, as they were ours.

  I didn’t know, as a girl, how remarkable Father was. When my mother complained that his death was no accident, I took her charge to be the product of her grief. But now I think he must have had a world of enemies. When our home was gone and we moved to the city, I learned that Father, who was so strong, loving, stern, and fair, was all that stood between my innocent happiness and chaos.

  I SOMETIMES THINK Sarah blames me for her fate, though I had nothing to do with it. She sealed it herself shortly after I arrived by getting pregnant. The father was my husband’s butler, Bam. I had noticed that he could not keep his eyes off her when Sarah passed through the room and I was not surprised to learn that they hoped to marry. She told me first and I saw nothing against it. She entreated me to tell my husband, as she feared he wouldn’t agree to the match. This was when she still talked and behaved like a normal servant, asking for permission, eager to please. I agreed to inform my husband of her request. It seemed an advantageous match to me, as it would serve to strengthen their loyalty to the property. These marriages the negroes make are not legal, but they set great store by them.

  I wonder now how I could have been such a fool. My husband’s reaction to this news was to leap up from his desk, bellowing like a bull. He bid me send Sarah to him at once and when she came, he pulled her inside by her arm and commenced slapping and hitting her until she was flat on the floor, begging him to stop. It was not to be borne, he swore, that he should be treated in this fashion in his own house. When I spoke a word on her behalf, he pushed me out of the room and slammed the door in my face. Then, while I was standing there, listening to Sarah’s pleas and his curses, I understood everything. Sarah had resisted him all those weeks when I wasn’t there, and now she had tried to outmaneuver him, but she never would again.

  My husband called upon Mr. Sutter, who appeared in the dining room just before dinner with two brutish field hands at his side. The three of them dragged Bam off to the quarter, howling that he never had been whipped in his life and would not be whipped now; he would kill himself first. Later we learned that he escaped his captors briefly, took up an ax from a stump, and threatened to cut off his own hand to render himself worthless to his master. The boys rushed him, and in the ensuing struggle one of them got a deep gash in his leg, which so enraged Mr. Sutter that he beat Bam near to death. It was six weeks before he was recovered enough to be transported to the city, where he was sold.

  Sarah’s baby, a boy, was taken from her as soon as it was born and sent out to nurse at my brother-in-law’s plantation upriver, with the understanding that when he was old enough to work, he would be sold, and the profit, after his board was deducted, divided between the brothers. Sarah wept, pleaded, then grew silent and secretive. My husband was pleased with himself, though he’d been forced to sell a valuable negro at a loss. When the dealers saw Bam’s scars, they took him for a troublesome fellow and lowered their offers accordingly. By the end of that year, Sarah was pregnant with Walter.

  JOEL BORDEN STOPPED here on his way to the town, with a bag of doves he’d shot himself and a fresh ham, not something we need, as we’ve pigs to spare. My husband asked him to stay for dinner and he agreed. Though the men all talk behind his back, Joel is such an easy fellow they treat him like a friend to his face. And, of course, when they go to town, they are quick to look him up, as he knows where all the parties and dances are and is welcome in the best houses for his charm and wit. Once a year he gives a party at his plantation, Rivière, and there is a line of carriages up the river road for a solid day. I attended once, the first year I came here.

  Now, as I came into the dining room, I found Joel sprawled over a chair facing the windows, a glass of bourbon on the table next to him. My husband was not in the room. Sarah came in with a stack of plates to lay the table. Joel looked round, and, seeing me, leaped to his feet, holding out his hands to take my own. “Manon,” he said, looking me up and down, “you haven’t changed. No, wait, I think you are a little more beautiful.”

  But I have changed, so much that I hardly remember how to carry on trivial banter, though once I was proficient. “You look well, Joel,” was all I said. He’s a handsome man in an indolent, good-natured way. He has only enough energy to seek his own pleasure continually; everything else is too much for him.

  “I saw your mother last week,” he said, “and I promised I would look in on you before my return.”

  He has a bevy of old ladies who adore him; my mother is one. She wanted Joel to marry me, though we all knew it was impossible because Joel needs money and I have none. He played at courting me briefly, then moved on to another available beauty. When he decides to marry, he will choose someone rich, possibly older than he is, but for now poor girls always come with doting mothers, who ply him with dinner and sherry or port. I wonder how much longer he can hold out without selling something.

  “Please tell her I am well,” I said. He released my hands, puzzled by my unresponsiveness. Then the reason for it came banging in the door, brandishing a bottle and addressing a barking order to Sarah. He pounced on Joel with fake geniality, on the subject of a dog he must see before he left. I followed Sarah to the door and whispered to her, “Tell Delphine to serve a blancmange for dessert.” She nodded, and went out. My husband was opening the wine bottle, a particularly fine claret which he highly recommended to our guest. Though I don’t usually drink in the afternoon, something in his excitement at having company made me decide to join them. I took three glasses from the sideboard and brought them to the table. My husband gave me a quick glance, skepticism combined with surprise. He thought Joel had stopped because he was grateful that his negroes weren’t all dead, but I knew he had come, as he said, because he promised my mother he would. She had sent a letter the day after the patrol, full of the idiotic rumors circulating in town: Joel’s three negroes had become ten, armed with rifles and machetes and intent on joining a band who lived in the swamp downriver. I had not had time to respond to this jittery letter.

  My husband wanted to talk about cane, and so he did, all through the meal. He went on about the press and the bagasse and the market and the weather until I thought I would faint from boredom. All Joel knows about sugar is what his overseer tells him. He and I drank most of the wine while my husband entertained us with estimates of how much time and money he could save if he had the newest mill, which is more efficient than any previously invented and more expensive than any planter can afford. Sarah came in and out, bringing new dishes, removing plates. My husband neither spoke to her nor looked at her, nor did Joel, who was occupied in sending me sly remarks about a new mill that ran on bourbon, or another that actually ran on sugar, an invention long overdue. He is so droll, and since he kept filling my glass, I was soon feeling relaxed and gay, as I always was in the old days. My husband didn’t appear to object; it is such a rarity for him to see me smile. When the bottle was empty, he excused himself to go off for another. Joel took my hand in his and said, “Manon, why don’t you come to town for a visit? It’s so dull without you there.”

  “You have no idea what dullness is,” I said. “You’ve no experience of it.” At these words my husband returned, carrying two bottles, his timing so appropriate that I was overcome with laughte
r. Joel laughed too, at his host’s expense. My husband regarded us hopefully. “I’ve an excellent port,” he said.

  “I shall fall off my horse before I get to False River,” Joel exclaimed.

  Then my husband pressed him to stay the night, but there was never any hope of that. I could see the wasted afternoon through Joel’s eyes, napping or reading or looking at dogs when he could be arriving in town in time for an elegant supper, followed by gambling and flirting. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I thought, to enter on his arm a room full of envious girls? A familiar gloom descended upon me. With Joel, I would have had children.

  Sarah came in with the blancmange, which Joel, smiling at me, pronounced his favorite. He ate an entire one once at my mother’s house, so it is a joke between us. Sarah set the dish down before me and my husband directed her to bring the port glasses. As she passed behind him on her way to the sideboard, she cast him a furtive look; she wasn’t happy about something. Then we heard a clattering in the hall, the door flew open, and Walter rushed in.

  He was barefoot, wearing only white pantaloons and a red kerchief around his neck. He dashed around the table, his spindly arms raised over his head, his eyes rolling wildly, singing something he apparently thought was a song, though it had neither tune nor sense. He stopped at my husband’s chair only long enough to shriek and push himself off against the table, then he careened past me and threw himself at Joel, grasping him by the waist and burying his curly head in his waistcoat.

  A good many things happened at once. My husband rose from his seat, shouting at Sarah to take the boy from the room. Walter lifted his face and began gibbering at Joel, who turned to me with an expression of astonishment and asked, “What have we here?” Then, as Sarah pulled the boy away by the arm, I saw Joel take in the mad creature’s marked resemblance to my husband. I believe his mouth dropped open. My husband understood that Joel understood, which infuriated him. He pushed back his chair and followed Sarah and the screaming child, directing slaps at one and then the other. The boy took the blow on the back of his head and howled, so enraged that he lost his footing. Sarah scooped him up by the waist and took him, kicking and screaming, from the room. My husband slammed the door behind them and came back to the table.

  I could feel Joel’s eyes upon me and my cheeks burned with shame. I heard my father’s voice, reminding me that a gentleman never raises his voice to a servant in public. What would he have thought of a man who strikes a child at a dinner party? My husband sat down in a huff and busied himself pouring out the port. An awful silence enveloped the table, and I could think of no way to break it. At last Joel said, “Are you going to serve me that dessert, Manon, or is it just there to tempt my appetite?”

  “Of course,” I said, taking up the spoon. “Just pass me your plate.” Then my husband asked Joel about the shooting at his place, a question which genuinely interested our guest, as he thinks the only pleasure in country living is the hunting, so they began to talk, and we went on as if nothing had happened, as if Joel wasn’t going back to town with a story that would amuse his bachelor friends: Manon Gaudet has no children, but her husband is not childless. It was a common enough tale; no one would think it a paradox. My only comfort was that I knew Joel would say nothing to my mother.

  AFTER JOEL LEFT, my husband went to see Mr. Sutter and I went to my room. I was still flushed and tipsy from the wine, but my good humor had been thoroughly destroyed. As we stood on the porch bidding our guest farewell, my husband had insisted on passing his arm around my waist, and there was nothing I could do but bear it until Joel was out of sight. There we were, a loving couple, waving and smiling as our guest turned his horse toward the town, no doubt eager to be done with us and our sham of a marriage. When he was out of earshot, I removed my husband’s hand and said, “Won’t Joel have some amusing stories to tell when he gets to town?”

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “He can tell all my friends I live with a man whose bastard son runs wild in the dining room and who strikes his servants in public. That should paint an edifying picture of the choice I’ve made.”

  He made no answer, but strode off toward the quarter.

  In my room, I threw myself across my bed and wept. I cried until I fell asleep. When I woke, Sarah was there nursing her baby, her eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face.

  “Did you send Walter in to get even with me or with him?” I asked.

  Her eyes snapped open. I turned my face away.

  “He just snuck in,” she said.

  I STAYED IN my room all evening. Sarah brought my supper on a tray, but I could scarcely eat it. Just after dark it began to rain and a wind picked up, rattling the shutters against the house. I changed into my nightclothes. After Sarah had brushed my hair, I sent her and the baby away for the night. Then I lay upon the bed thinking about Joel, about the look on his face when he turned to me over Walter’s babbling head and said, “What have we here?” Was it pity? I couldn’t bear that. I thought about my husband, and these thoughts, never warm, were like icy jets darting about in my brain. I could hear him moving about downstairs. I dozed, woke again to hear him climbing the stairs. He is heavy-footed. It’s hard to figure how one man walking can make as much noise as he does. He passed my door and went on to his own room. The rain had stopped, the wind had swept the clouds away, and moonlight streamed in through the window. My head ached from the wine and my throat was parched. I slipped out of bed, poured myself a glass of water, then went to look out the window, just for something to do. I felt I wouldn’t sleep again for years. It was still windy, the trees waved their upper branches as if they were calling me outside. I looked up at the clear sky, the glittering stars, then I looked down and discovered, near the foot of an oak, a man. Startled, I stepped away from the window. Had he seen me? I pulled the curtain in front of me and looked out past it cautiously, though my room was dark and it was unlikely that he could see me. It was a negro, dressed in a white shirt and loose breeches that whipped around in the wind. He was standing very still, his arms crossed, gazing up at the house. I couldn’t make out his features. Was he one of ours?

  I crept back to the bed and pulled the coverlet over me. He had no business coming up to the house after nightfall. If I woke my husband he would go out and chase the fellow back where he belonged.

  Then I thought that perhaps my husband knew he was there. Perhaps he was a sentry, posted to protect us from yet another rumor of revolt. I waited, breathing shallowly, as if the man might hear me. After a while I got up and crept back to the window. I got on my hands and knees and peeped through the bottom pane.

  He was gone.

  I TOOK A spoonful of tincture to get back to sleep and woke up feeling dead, unable to move my limbs. I heard the clock strike and knew I must get up and prepare myself to appear in the dining room, a thought that made my stomach turn. I lay clutching my sides and panting for a few moments, then, as the sensation passed, I managed to get to my feet. I washed my face at the basin, trying not to see my reflection in the mirror, but I did see it, and it frightened me. I rang the bell, waited a moment, and rang it again. Shortly I heard Sarah’s step on the stair. “For God’s sake, help me dress,” I said when she came in.

  She opened the armoire and pulled out my blue lawn morning dress, the lightest, least-confining thing I own. “Yes,” I said. “Put it right over my shift; there’s no time for the corset.” I drank a little water and collapsed at the dresser. “Just pin up the braid,” I said. She took the brush to the front and secured the back with a dozen pins, while I rubbed a little rouge into my cheeks. “What is wrong with my eyes?” I said, for they were red-rimmed and staring, the pupils like black saucers in a band of pale blue. We heard the bell to the dining room. “I best go,” Sarah said.

  “Go on,” I told her. “Tell him I’ll be down directly.” When she was gone, I pulled on my shoes and fastened a tucker in the bodice of the dress. “A cup of coffee will bring m
e round,” I said. Abruptly I remembered the man, but I had no time to think about him. I hurried out across the landing and down the stairs, clutching the rail like a woman in a swoon. As I approached the door, I could hear the clatter of dishes, the steady scraping of my husband’s fork against his plate. When I went in, he was sopping up gravy with a piece of bread. He looked up at me without stopping. I took my seat, turned my cup over, adjusted my skirt.

  “Are you ill?” he asked by way of greeting.

  Sarah came between us with the coffee pot. Blessed coffee, I thought as the fragrant steam rose from the cup. I took a careful sip before answering. “I slept poorly,” I said.

  “It is because you take no exercise,” he said. I waved away the plate of eggs Sarah held out before me. “Just toasted bread,” I said.

  “And you eat nothing,” he continued. “It’s no wonder you’ve made yourself ill.” He shoved in the last of his dripping bread, smacking his lips appreciatively. “More coffee,” he said to Sarah.

  I dipped my toast in my cup. My head was beginning to clear a little. As Sarah leaned across him, he gave her a perplexed inspection. “Send Walter to me,” he said.

  “Oh, please, no,” I exclaimed.

  “What objection could you have?” he said coldly.

  “My head is bursting,” I complained.

  Sarah set the urn back on the sideboard.

  “Send him to me,” he said again.

  When she went out, he said to me, “Joel Borden is right. You should go to town and visit your mother. Why don’t you write to her?”

  “My place is here,” I said. Then the door opened and Walter was upon us, followed by Sarah, who was making a study of the carpet. Walter was wearing only a slip, such as the field children wear. It was too big for him and hung off one shoulder; the skirt came nearly to his ankles. My husband pushed his chair back from the table and called the creature, holding out his arms to him, but the child just ran around the table, as is his wont, babbling and giving high-pitched shrieks for no reason. At length he passed close enough for his father to grab him. “Hold still,” he said, struggling with his squirming catch. “Hold still, hold still, and I will give you some muffin.” He pinned the boy’s arms behind his back with one hand and with the other reached out to Sarah, demanding “Muffin, muffin.” She quickly broke up a few pieces onto a plate and set it before him. This got the boy’s attention. He began a low crooning, straining his head toward the plate. My husband took up a bit and pressed it to the child’s lips, quieting him momentarily. “How old is he now?” he asked Sarah.