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After Mama left, I relaxed on my bed and read some of the Charles Dickens novel Gladys Tate had brought me. Since the sun had gone down behind the trees, I was able to pull up the shade and permit more air to come into the room. The sound of a flapping bird's wings interrupted my reading and I went to the window to look out on the night heron. She did a little dance on the railing and turned to peer back at me.
"Hello," I said. "Shopping for dinner or just out for a stroll?"
She lifted her wings as if to reply and then the muscles in her neck undulated as she dipped her beak before rising to swoop down and toward the forest and pon
ds where she would hunt for her dinner. Never did I wish I had the power of flight so much as I did at the moment. If I had it, I would fly alongside the heron and glide over the swamp before lifting myself higher and higher toward the glittering promise of stars.
The sound of the door being opened below and footsteps on the stairs startled me. I turned from the window to greet Gladys Tate.
"You can bring your chamber pot down now and take a bath, if you like. My maids have gone to bed. Empty that pail of dirty water and get some more to do some more cleaning tomorrow," she instructed. "Don't forget to fetch water for yourself and our baby," she added. "When you get to the bottom of the stairs, it's the first door on the right. Towels and soap and everything else you need is there."
"Tres bien, madame," I said. "Thank you."
"I hope," she said, "you told your mother I'm doing all I can to make the best of a horrible situation. It's not easy for me either. She should understand that when she comes here," she whined.
"I don't have to tell Mama anything, madame. She has the power to see the truth. She always knows what's truly in a person's heart. That's her gift."
"Ridiculous folklore. No one has that power, but I asked around and people say your mother is the best midwife in the bayou," she admitted. "I was told she's never lost a baby in birthing, except for those already dead." She smiled. "Everyone thinks it's a good idea to have her look after me."
She stared at me a moment and then she brought her hands to her breasts as if she had just experienced the sort of tenderness I had described I experienced.
"It bothers you when you sleep on your stomach sometimes, doesn't it?" she asked.
"Oui, madame."
"Then it will bother me, too," she vowed. "Don't go anywhere else in the house. My butler is still wandering about," she warned, and descended.
A moment later, I took the chamber pot and followed. The bathroom was almost as big as the room I now lived in upstairs. It had pink and white wallpaper with a fluffy blue throw rug beside the bathtub. All of the fixtures were brass. The vanity table had bath powders, soaps, and colognes. I emptied the chamber pot and then closed the door and began to fill the tub with warm water. I found some bubble bath and put some in as the water filled the tub. Then I undressed and soaked for nearly twenty minutes. It was really rather delightful and something I couldn't do at home. I made a mental note to tell Mama so she would be less anxious about my staying here.
The towels were big, soft ones. After I washed my hair, I scrubbed it dry with one and then wrapped a towel around myself as I sat at the vanity and brushed out my long strands. Staring at myself in the mirror, I thought I detected more chubbiness in my cheeks and remembered Mama's warning about getting too fat. I indulged myself by spraying on some of the cologne and then I put on my dress and, after cleaning up the bathroom, carried my chamber pot back upstairs. I returned to fill my water jug and get a clean pail of water for the cleaning I would do.
As I was leaving the bathroom again, I heard a horrible sound. It resembled someone retching. I stood completely still and listened. It was definitely someone retching and it was coming from the first doorway down left. My curiosity was more powerful than Gladys Tate's warning not to wander. I tiptoed along, keeping close to the wall. When I reached the doorway, I inched my head around to peer into what I remembered from the model house was the master bedroom. I could see clearly through the room and into the bathroom because the bathroom door was open. Octavious was nowhere, but Gladys Tate was on her hands and knees, hovering over the toilet, vomiting.
I snapped my head back, an electric chill shooting up my spine.
Was she vomiting because of something she had eaten that was too rich or not good or . . .
No, I told myself. That's too far-fetched. She couldn't imagine it and then actually have it happen, could she? My jug of water tapped the wall.
"Octavious?" I heard her call. "Is that you?"
I didn't move.
"Octavious? Damn you, I'm sick."
I waited, my heart pounding. Then I heard her retch again and I quickly retreated to the doorway and ascended the stairs, taking care not to spill any of the water out of the pail.
I closed the door behind me and stood there, catching my breath and wondering if I had made the right decision after all. These people were rich, Gladys Tate's family was one of the most famous and respected families in the bayou. Their factory gave many people employment, and everyone, from the priest to the politicians, showed them respect. But there were shadows and memories looming in the corners and the closets of this house. I wondered if I could stay here and not be touched by the sadness and evil that I suspected had once strolled freely through the corridors and rooms. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, it was all still very much here.
Sleep did not come easy the second night. I flitted in and out of nightmares and tossed and turned, waking often and listening to the creaks in the wood. Sometimes I thought I heard the sound of someone sobbing. I listened hard and it would drift away and I would fall back asleep. Shortly before daybreak, I was awake again and this time heard the soft sound of someone tiptoeing up the stairway. The door opened slowly, and for a moment, no one was there. My heart stopped. Was it a ghost? The spirit of one of Gladys Tate's angry ancestors, enraged by my presence in the house?
Then a dark figure appeared and made its way across the room to the window shade. I pretended to be asleep, but kept my right eye slightly open. It was Gladys Tate. She pulled down the shade, waited a moment, and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly. I could barely hear her descend the stairs. She had moved like a sleepwalker, floating. It filled me with amazement. It did no good to close my eyes. I remained awake and saw the first weak rays of sunlight penetrate the shade and vaguely light the room to tell me morning, the beautiful bayou daybreak, had come. Only I would not be outside to greet it as I had all my life.
The next few days passed uneventfully. I cleaned and scrubbed the room until I believed it looked as immaculate as a room in a hospital, the old wood shining, the window so clear it looked open when it was closed. I took everything off the shelves and out of the closet, dusted and organized it, and then I dusted and polished all the small furniture.
Despite herself, Gladys Tate was impressed and commented that she was happy I was taking good care of my quarters.
I was lonely, of course, and missed Mama terribly, as well as the world outside; but every night, without fail, my night heron paid me a visit and strutted up and down the railing a little longer each time as I spoke to him through the window. I told him to tell all my animal friends in the swamp that I had not deserted them and I would be back before long. I imagined the heron visiting with nutrias and deer, snakes and turtles, and especially blue jays, who were the biggest gossips I knew, giving them all the news. At night the cicadas were louder than ever, letting me know that all of Nature was happy I was all right and would return. It was all silly pretending, I know; but it kept me content.
