Duet for Three Hands Page 18

  “Jessie, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Wooden voice, like they were strangers. “I like to come up here, clear my head, get a little peace and quiet.”

  A dog howled from one of the neighboring houses. Whit climbed the rest of the way in, watching her in the moonlight. The tree’s branches rustled in the breeze.

  She sighed in the darkness. “It’s not the same here since you left.” She said it with a hint of judgment in her tone, like it was his fault.

  He sat with that for a moment, fighting against the tickle that started at the back of his eyelids.

  “You have any girlfriends up there?” Was that a quiver in her voice? Was she jealous? After all this time she doubted him? She was the one who hadn’t written.

  “There are no girlfriends.” The breeze brought the smell of burning tobacco and the sounds of laughter from the veranda.

  “You best find a nice girl to marry. One that looks good sitting next to you at church when you’re running Coca-Cola.”

  “What’re you talking about?” She didn’t answer. It was silent for several minutes except for the rustle of pine needles. Finally, he said, “Father told me there are a hundred men every day waiting for work outside the gates. How could I walk through the doors and leave them all there, hungry?”

  “You know how many men wish they had that problem instead of begging for work?”

  “You think I have any say over what happens to me?”

  Her voice was soft and sad. “You’ll be at one of those fancy parties with all those rich, white girls fawning all over you, and you’ll realize you haven’t checked for a letter from me in weeks.”

  He turned to her, horrified to hear the tears in his voice. “Listen to me, Jeselle Thorton. That will never happen. Not ever. You hear me?” A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. Neither of them moved.

  Then he felt her shift so that she was closer to him, her voice husky next to his shoulder. “I’ve been wondering if you saw the Atlantic Ocean?” She put her head on his arm.

  He felt the tears tighten his throat again. “I did. It made me feel small.”

  “I knew it would.”

  Her breath came in little shakes. Crying. No, this he could not allow. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap. She buried her face in his neck. Tears soaked his skin. He found her hands, brought them to his lips.

  “Whit,” she whispered against his fingers. “I missed you so much it hurt.”

  Vanilla and honey. He breathed in her scent as if to bring her mouth to his with the force of a wish, feeling possessed with fever, intoxicated from the nearness of her. And finally, after imagining it a thousand times, he kissed her. She shivered against him as he probed her mouth with the flesh of his lips, the slight tip of his tongue. After a second her mouth parted, and he felt her pressing into him, her small breasts against his chest. A sound in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, escaped. He spoke against her mouth, “Stay with me.” She stiffened. Pulling away so that he might see her face, a chill slid between them. Her eyes, round and frightened. “I’ve asked too much. I’m sorry.” He pulled back, trying to steady his ragged breath.

  “No.” She tightened her arms around his neck. “Whit, no matter what, tonight, don’t stop.”

  “I’ll never stop when it comes to you.” He whispered against her mouth before crushing her to him.

  Chapter 24

  Lydia

  * * *

  “Mother,” Emma said, her face flushed, the beginning of tears in her voice. “You’re too old to go to college. I mean, what will people think?” She dropped the knife on the table and stared at Lydia. A loose piece of apple fell to the floor. Birdie, her eyes wide, picked up the wayward fruit and plopped it into the bowl.

  Lydia smiled. The week between Christmas and New Year’s, having both the girls as well as Emma’s new husband home, had come and gone too quickly. Tomorrow they would leave. “What people think doesn’t matter to me. Your father’s been gone over five years now, you’re married, Birdie’s off at college. I have some time to spare. You two have no idea how lonely it is here without you.” She turned back to the ball of pastry on the table, rolling the piecrust into an even circle. What she didn’t say was that if she liked it, she might stay for several years and complete the bachelor’s degree that she walked away from to marry William all those years ago.

  The acceptance letter that came just before New Year’s Eve had been from Professor Fye himself. Before dancing a jig in her kitchen, she looked at the letter a second time just to make sure it was true. He must be old, she thought. His writing was messy, like his hands wobbled.

  “I’ll only be gone for a short time. You and Jack are busy this summer with his residency, anyway. You told me yourself you didn’t think you could get home but once or twice this summer. And Birdie’s going to summer school. There’s no reason, really, for me to stay.”

  Emma’s eyes darted back and forth. “I’ve only been married a few months. I wanted to be able to come home when I needed to.”

  Birdie picked up the knife and held it thoughtfully in her hands. “I think it sounds wonderful, Mother. They say it’s beautiful up there in Montevallo. I’ll bet you’ll be the best one up there. Better than the teachers, even. But where will you live?”

  “I’m staying in the ladies’ housing.”

  “Mother.” Emma put her hands on her hips. “You can’t stay in the housing with girls. Why, they’re all our age.”

  “I’ll be used to it then, won’t I?”

  Birdie tucked her blonde hair behind her ears. “Plus, Mother’s so young looking, they’ll think she’s one of them.”

  Lydia smiled, pleased at the compliment. “I was thinking about getting my hair cut like you girls.”

  Emma’s eyes filled with tears. “But you’ve always had your long braid. Papa loved it so, remember?”

  Lydia moved a sheet of crust into the bottom of the pie pan. “Change can give you a lift sometimes. I think I could use a lift.”

  “I think you should do it,” said Birdie.

  “Cut my hair or go to college?” Lydia asked with a laugh.

  “Both.” Birdie squealed and clapped her hands.

  “But you’ll have to sleep in the same room with those girls,” said Emma. “It’s not dignified.”

  Lydia laughed. “It’s only ten weeks. Surely nothing terrible could happen in that amount of time.”

  By the next week, half the town knew of Lydia’s summer plans. Everywhere she went, someone asked her about it. As she left the drug store, plump, bossy Rachel Stevens cornered her. Rachel widened her flat, brown eyes and rested her fingers on Lydia’s forearm. “Now, I hear,” pronouncing it heeah like they all did. Lydia, even after almost twenty years, still noticed the accent. “Now, I hear you’re going up to Montevallo for a college course.” Rachel paused and took a big breath into her cheeks. “Leavin’ your home and family for two whole months. Why, I’m just amazed you’d think to do such a thing. Now I thought you already knew how to play the piana.” She smiled, revealing her upper gums.

  Lydia stopped herself from correcting her pronunciation of piano, remembering her mother’s advice, that you must meet incivility with grace and politeness. “I’ll be studying composition, which has been my interest for many years. Now the children are out of the house I have time to devote to further study.” She paused and straightened her hat. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, Rachel. I’m off to get my hair bobbed.” And then she smiled in her most polite manner and turned to go, but not before noticing how Rachel’s mouth was open like the bass that swam in the weeds and shallows.

  Part IV

  From Jeselle Thorton’s journal.

  * * *

  May 13, 1934

  * * *

  Before the lake house was built, Whit and I swam in the creek near our home in Atlanta. It was a deep swimming hole, discovered during one of Whit’s journeys into the woods. His job w
as to look for snakes and warn me if one was near. I was deathly afraid of their evil heads sticking out of the water, moving with a swiftness that left barely a ripple on the water. He’d yell out to me, “Snake!” Most times it was a harmless garter snake, but I would move from the water just the same. I never went all the way in, anyway, as my fear overwhelmed any wish for relief from the heat. I couldn’t take the chance that I’d be submerged when one happened along.

  Whitmore was afraid of nothing, plunging deeply into the water with no thought of snakes, jagged rocks, or hidden creatures. One day he rigged a rope swing from a tall oak and never tired of swinging over the water in a big sweeping loop, like a pendulum on a clock. He held on with both hands and feet, whooping like a wild animal as he swooped past his destination and then back. At just the right spot he'd let go and jump in, a look of sheer joy on his face. He’d disappear under the water for several seconds, during which time I was sure he would not reappear, before popping up and out of the water with a triumphant grin. “You should try it once, Jeselle, just one time,” he always called to me where I sat with my toes in the water.

  But I never did. Now I wish I had.

  I used to daydream about what it would be like if my father were still alive. I imagined that Mama wouldn’t be so tough and brittle if he were around to love her. One time I asked her if she and my daddy were an epic love story like Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice. She laughed hard, her brittle laugh that sounded like the breaking of a tree branch. “I don’t know what kind of things you’re reading, but real life ain’t like a book. Best you know that now.”

  Chapter 25

  Jeselle

  * * *

  Mama knitted in the rocking chair near the woodstove in their cottage. Their servant’s cottage, a front room and a bedroom that she and Mama shared, felt chilly. “Will you make a fire for us, Jes? Had a chill in my bones all afternoon, like someone walked over my grave.” Unusual for May in Atlanta, rain had come in an unexpected gust that morning, and the temperature plummeted to the fifties. Mama picked up one of Jeselle’s stockings. “Mercy, how do you get a hole in every one of your stockings?”

  “Sorry, Mama.” Jeselle knelt in front of the stove and wadded up an old newspaper, making a triangle of kindling around it, then lit the paper with one of the matches they kept on the shelf with Jeselle’s books. The dry wood caught easily, but it would take a few minutes for the room to warm.

  “Will you read to me from the newspaper?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Jeselle went to the window, her stomach turning. Rain fell in a steady stream, making mud puddles in the yard. She must tell Mama the truth tonight, or soon she would guess. Blood pounded between her ears so that it almost hid the sound of the rain tapping on the roof and the wood crackling in the stove. She crossed her arms against her swollen, tender breasts and leaned against the wall, trying to muster courage. She’d checked her undergarment after dinner, one last time, for blood—one last desperate hope before she had to face the truth. She hadn’t had a cycle since Christmas. There was a strange ache in her midsection. A baby was coming. She’d known it for weeks now.

  “Mama.” She turned from the window.

  “What is it, child?” Mama didn’t look up from her knitting.

  Jeselle crossed the room and stood before her, knees shaking under her dress, opening her mouth to speak, but no sound came.

  “Were you fixing to read to me or not?”

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  The needles went still. Mama looked up at her, her face like stone. “Lawd. No.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeselle whispered.

  “Who?”

  The lie came out of her mouth fast. “You don’t know him.”

  Mama stood. The back of the rocking chair bumped against the wall. “Tell me the truth, child.”

  “Someone I met when I worked for Mrs. Greer.”

  Mama stepped closer, peering into her face. Jeselle looked at the floor, feeling like the fires of hell might pull her under. Mama’s rough, hardened palm struck her cheek. Jeselle yelped with surprise. “How dare you lie to me? After all I’ve done for you.”

  A blaze of anger overtook Jeselle, like a sudden sickness in the middle of the night. She raised her voice in mock deference, imitating Mama’s vernacular. “Yep, you raised me up good and proper to take it from white folks. Taught me how to cook and clean instead of using the intelligence God gave me for something better.”

  “What kind of life did you think you was gonna have? Just ’cause you can read and write? You think Mrs. Bellmont was gonna send you off with Whit to Princeton like you was the same as him?”

  Now Jeselle’s voice was calm and quiet. “I am the same. You’re the only one too ignorant to know it.”

  Mama raised her hand to strike again, but Jeselle blocked it with her forearm. Mama sputtered, her eyes black with anger. “Baby, you think you’re the same as rich white folks? Well, I’m here to tell you that you ain’t. You’re the same as me, not them.”

  “Whit knows it, and God knows it. That’s enough for me.”

  Mama went still. A look of understanding moved across her face. She fell into the rocking chair, bringing her hands to her neck. “Whit.” Her face crumpled like a punctured ball. “Jessie, what have you done?” She clutched the arms of the rocking chair. “Did he make you?”

  Was there a hint of hope to the question? “No, Mama, of course not. I went to him willingly. As his equal.” Jeselle felt her chin lift in defiance as she uttered the truth out loud for the first time. “I love him, and he loves me. We’ve loved each other all our lives.”

  “You really think love is what that boy has for you? I know what boys think about, and it ain’t love. You’re a fool if you think he wants anything other than for you to spread your legs for him. Meanwhile, where is he? Back at Princeton. He finds this out he’ll run for the hills. Mark my words.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Mama’s face went from anger to distress. “Do you realize what will happen if Frank Bellmont finds out the truth? He’ll throw us out on the street. Did you think of that?”

  Jeselle began to cry. “I didn’t, Mama. I’m sorry.”

  “The baby will come at the end of the summer. Maybe early September,” said Mama, counting on her fingers.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Mama pulled Jeselle into her chest, hard. “Oh baby, what have you done?”

  Jeselle sobbed harder, soaking the bodice of Mama’s dress, but even as she did so she felt Mama’s mind turning, working out a solution. After a time, she smoothed Jeselle’s head and then led her to the bed. “I’ll figure what to do.”

  Jeselle pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. Her eyes ached with fatigue. All she wanted to do for the last month was sleep. Mama paced, her brow furrowed in concentration. After a few moments she sat on the edge of the bed. “Reverend Young and his wife, they’ve been wanting a baby for years now. I’ll tell them our situation and see if they’ll take the baby. We can write to Mr. Nate and see if you can work in his house up there until the baby comes. I have a cousin Bess that lives out near Montevallo. You can stay with her.” She wiped her hands together like she did when she’d finished shaping a loaf of bread.

  Like I’m flour on her hands, thought Jeselle. She stared at the ceiling, feeling a part of her die. “Just like that, Mama?”

  Mama’s eyes were hard again. “What other choice do you have? You think Mrs. Bellmont won’t figure this out? She’s seen plain as I have the way that boy has looked at you all these years. A half-Negro grandchild is not in their plans, I can tell you that.”

  She turned on her side, pushing her face into the pillow, wanting only to be left alone to think. “Can I sleep now, Mama?”

  “You best do that. We’ll get everything settled in the morning. You’ll have to write the letter to Mr. Nate for me. I’ll tell him you need a job. He’ll be glad to get you, be my guess, given Frances.”

  Jeselle wa
s passing the sitting room when Mrs. Bellmont called out to her from her secretary desk, flushed and breathless like she’d just run up the stairs. “Will you shut the door, baby girl?”

  Jeselle did as she asked. What made Mrs. Bellmont’s face so queer? “Is everything all right? Is it Whit?”

  Mrs. Bellmont waved her hands in the air. “Oh, no, nothing bad. In fact, quite the opposite. I’ve been practically beside myself, waiting to hear. And now, here it was in today’s post.” She took a deep breath, picking up an envelope from the desk. “I’m going to try and say this slow, so I don’t scare you.” She held the envelope between two hands. “This is a letter from Oberlin College. They’re in Ohio, and they’ve been accepting black women for almost one hundred years—there are many black women graduates since the 1800s with bachelor’s degrees, and Jes, even a few doctorates. I have a friend whose brother is a professor there. I wrote to him and sent samples of your writing and told him of our studies together. He was terribly impressed with one of your essays. Your analysis of Macbeth. Remember?”

  Jeselle nodded, holding her breath.

  “We’ve corresponded, and this morning I received a letter from him. They want you, Jes. They want you to come study there.”

  Jeselle’s legs wobbled. Her eyes followed the second hand on the clock beside the desk. A crow squawked outside the window. “How would I pay for it?”

  “I have it figured.” Mrs. Bellmont waved her hand dismissively.

  “Oh no. You sold your wedding ring to do this.” How could she? How could Mrs. Bellmont risk her husband’s wrath? For her? Especially after what Jeselle had done. She glanced at Mrs. Bellmont’s left arm, healed now, but her bones were easily broken again. Or worse.