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Pa spoke loud and sharp, making my eyes focus on an older couple who stood slightly in front of a younger one who held back considerately for the middle-aged couple to have the first chance at the sale merchandise. I edged backward toward a corner not so far from where Grandpa sat whittling.
Look at me, Grandpa, see what your goodhearted son is doing! Stealing from you the only one you have left that loves you! Say something to stop him, Toby Casteel . . say it, say it, say it!
He said nothing, only whittled.
The gray-haired man and woman before me were tall and very distinguished, both wearing gray coats with suits underneath, as if they came from a foreign world, with education and intelligence an aura all around them. They didn't stare around the way the younger man and woman did at the shocking poverty and the pitifulness of Grandpa whittling and acting as if no one had come to call.
Their bearing was arrogant, regal, their eyes kind as they looked at me pressed back against the wall, with panic in my face and heart. What my eyes must have shown flicked a shimmer of pity in the man's blue eyes, but the woman refused to show anything. She could have been thinking about the weather. I sighed again, swallowing the lump in my throat, or tried to, feeling trapped. I wished time would speed up, and it would be two years from now. But right at this moment my heart was thudding madly, drumming out a tune of fright in the cage of my ribs, making me feel weak in the knees and queasy in the stomach. I wanted Grandpa to glance upward and meet my eyes and do something to stop this, but I'd never succeeded in forcing Grandpa to do anything when Pa was around.
They don't like me, don't like me, I kept thinking about the older couple, who refused to smile encouragement my way that would make me feel right about choosing them. With the kind of desperate hope that had been Fanny's, I darted a quick glance at the younger pair.
The man was tall and good-looking, with dark brown straight hair and light brown eyes. Beside him stood his wife, almost as tall as he was. Six feet, or very near it, she had to be, even without those high heels. Her hair was a huge mass of auburn red, darker and richer than Sarah's hair fall been. Sarah had never been to a beauty parlor, and only too obviously this woman's hair couldn't survive without one. Hair teased to such exaggerated fullness it seemed quite solid. Her eyes were a strange pale color, so light they seemed not to have any color at all, only huge pupils swimming in a colorless sea. She had that porcelainwhite skin that often came with naturally red hair, flawless and made up to perfection. A pretty face? Yes. Very pretty.
She had the look of the hill people . . . something there. .
Unlike the older couple who wore those heavy gray tailored coats, she wore a hot-pink suit, so tight it appeared painted on. She sashayed about, staring at everything, even leaning to peer into the oven that she opened. Why did she do that? Straightening up, she smiled at everyone and at no one in particular, turning about to stare brazenly at the old brass bed that I had just made, staring up at the baskets on the ceiling, gaping at the pitiful attempts to give the cabin comforts and coziness. Her face wore myriad expressions, changing fleetingly, as if all struggled to survive new impressions that wiped out former gasps, shocks, shudders . . . and other unspoken surprises. With two long-nailed lacquered fingers she picked up the cloth I had used to wipe off the table, held it gingerly two seconds, then dropped it to the floor as if she'd touched a loathsome disease. Her bright pink lips froze in the smile she tried to maintain.
And all the time the good-looking young husband kept his eyes glued on me. He smiled as if to reassure me, and that smile of his lit up his eyes. For some reason that made me feel better--he, at least, approved of what he saw.
"Well," said Pa, planting his big feet wide apart, his huge fists on his hips, "it's up t'ya, girl, up t'ya . ."
From one couple to the other I stared. How could I know from appearances? What was I supposed to look for? The auburn-haired woman in the bright pink knit smiled winningly, and that made her even prettier. I admired her long painted nails, her earrings big as half-dollars; admired her lips, her clothes, her hair. The older, gray-haired woman met my eyes without blinking and she didn't smile. Her earrings were tiny pearls and not impressive at all.
I thought I saw something hostile in her eyes that made me draw back and look at her husband-- and he wouldn't meet my gaze. How could I tell if there was no eye contact? The soul was read through the eyes--deceiving eyes if they didn't meet yours squarely.
Again I turned to the younger couple, who wore the "in" kind of clothes and not the tailored, expensive type of the older couple, the kind of clothes that would never go out of style. Stuffy, dowdy clothes, Fanny would say. At that time I knew nothing at all about comparing real wealth with tacky nouveau riche.
And all this only made me feel less than human in my shapeless garment, drooping low on one shoulder because the neckline was much too large, with its galled hemline that I was always meaning to fix but never had time to tend to. Even as I stood there, I felt wispy wild hair tickling my forehead, so automatically I reached up to brush it away. This drew everyone's attention to my reddened, chapped hands with short, broken fingernails. I tried to hide my hands that scrubbed clothes every day of my life and did all the dishwashing. Who'd want me when I was such a mess?
Neither pair would.
Fanny had been chosen quickly, eagerly. Fanny hadn't ruined her hands, and Fanny's long, straight hair was heavy enough to stay in place. I was too ordinary, too ugly, and too pathetic--who could ever want me--if Logan couldn't bear to meet my eyes anymore? How could I have dared to think that perhaps one day he might even love me?
"Well, girl," Pa said again, frowning and showing his disapproval because I was taking so long. "I said ya'd have yer pick, an if ya don't make it soon, do it fer ya."
Troubled, sensing something of an undercurrent and not understanding what it was, I tried to guess what was behind the older pair's withdrawn, cold attitude, their eyes resting on me but apparently not wanting to really see me. That made me see them as dull, staid, perhaps cold, and all the time the auburnhaired woman with the colorless eyes was smiling, smiling, and Sarah had been red-haired and so loving--at least until the babies started dying.
Yes, the younger couple would be exciting and less strict. And that was how I made my hasty decision. "Them," I said, indicating the redhead and her handsome husband. The wife seemed a bit older, but that was all right, she was still young enough, and the longer I stared the prettier she became.
Those colorless sea eyes with round black fish swimming took on a glistening glow--of happiness? She hurried to me, gathered me in her embrace, smothered my face against her voluptuous bosom. "Ya'll neva regret it, neva," she said, half laughing, glancing triumphantly at Pa, then at her husband. "I'm gonna make ya t'best motha there is, t'very very best there is . ."
Then, as if she'd touched red-hot coals, she dropped her arms and stepped back from me, glancing down to see if I'd dirtied her hot-pink suit before she brushed it off vigorously.
She wasn't really so pretty on close inspection. Her darkly fringed pale eyes were set a bit too close together, and her ears were small and lay close to her head, making them almost not there. And yet, when you didn't pick her apart bit by bit, altogether she made a woman marvelous to behold.
Truthfully, I'd never seen a woman with so much exaggerated femininity, radiating sexuality with her heaving bosom, her full buttocks, her tiny waist that must have struggled to support all it had to. Her knit top was strained so much it appeared thin over the stress areas. Her pants emphasized the wide V of her crotch--making Pa stare at her with a queer smile, not of admiration but of contempt.
Why was he smiling like that? How could he feel contemptuous of a woman he didn't know--did he know her? Of course, he'd have to have seen her before to set this thing up.
Again, fearfully alarmed, I looked at the older couple, too late. Already they had turned and were heading for the door. I felt a sinking sensation.
"Thank you, Mr. Casteel," said the older gentleman, stepping outside, assisting his wife over the doorsill, and, as if with relief, they both headed for their long black car. Pa hastened after them, leaving the door open behind him, said a few words in a low tone, and then hurried back.
No sooner was Pa in the door than he grinned at me in the most mocking way.
Had I chosen wrong? Panicky butterflies were on the wing again, battering my brain with doubts, buffeting my heart with indecision that came too late.
"My name is Calhoun Dennison," said the good-looking husband, stepping forward and taking my trembling hand firmly between both of his, "and this is my wife, Kitty Dennison. Thank you for choosing us, Heaven."
