Iron Lace (25 page)

Nicolette folded her hands in front of her and let Clarence finish the introduction to “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Sophie Tucker herself had sung the song in New Orleans. Nicolette had been too young to hear her, but the way Clarence told the story, the song was one of Miss Tucker’s favorites.

She stepped forward and began. The gentlemen were talking, and at first they didn’t pay her any attention. But a few lines into the song, the whiskered man held up his hand to quiet his friend and turned to watch her.

She liked having an audience. It was the one time she could be absolutely sure she was noticed. She sang louder and clapped her hands with the rhythm. When she got to the part about “the Swanee River,” she waved her hands in the air, the way she had seen a singer with a brass band do it. The men laughed and applauded, along with the women.

She was flushed with success when the music ended. She curtsied as Clarence began another song. This one was a dance, “Swipsey’s Cakewalk,” that Clarence had learned on a riverboat a long time before she was born, from a man named Joplin. She’d seen the sheet music once, and the little boy on the cover looked like Tony Pete. It was one of her favorite songs, but there weren’t any words, and she guessed that might be why Clarence was playing it now. She fooled him and began to dance instead.

The men threw coins at her feet, and she stooped to get them all. When she straightened, the duchess was in the doorway, and her father was just behind her.

Nicolette knew better than to look to the duchess for support. She would deny telling Nicolette she could come into the parlor. Nicolette considered disappearing out the opposite door, but she knew Mr. Rafe would find her eventually.

Holding the coins tightly in her fists, she started forward. The duchess was wearing her best satin dress, a rich purple adorned with dark red lace. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in sausage curls that made her nose look longer. She had ears that looked better when they were covered by hair, and they weren’t covered tonight—which was the only thing Nicolette could find to be glad about.

The duchess stepped aside, sweeping her skirts against the wall as Nicolette passed. Nicolette knew her father wouldn’t speak to her here. He clamped his hand on her shoulder and led her through the twisting passageway, toward her room near the kitchen. He towered over her, and his fingers burned through her dress.

“What were you doing in there?” he demanded, when they were far enough away from the parlor not to be heard.

“Singing.” She didn’t tell him about serving the champagne, and she certainly didn’t tell him about the kiss.

“Who told you you could go in there?”

“Nobody.”

His fingers tightened. “Who?”

She decided to risk a look. “Duchess,” she said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

She clamped her lips together. She could see no way out of this except lying, and although she didn’t mind lying, she couldn’t think of anybody except the duchess that she wanted to get into trouble.

“Somebody dressed you up and sent you in there. Who was it? Violet?”

“No!” This time she stared into his eyes, temporarily forgetting she was scared. “Violet’s been ’taining upstairs.”

“I’ll see about that.”

“I was just singing!” She stuck out her lower lip, but she didn’t cry. The thought that Violet might get in trouble for something she hadn’t even done made her suddenly brave. “I sing good!”

He shook her, and she wasn’t prepared for it. She went limp, like the cherished rag doll Clarence had given her. She forgot about the money she had stuffed down her dress until it fell to the floor at her feet. As suddenly as the shaking had begun, it ended. She moved to grab the bills, and the coins spilled from her hands. Her father gathered it all.

“Is there more?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Why do I bother asking? Turn around and let me unbutton your dress. I’ll see if there’s more.”

There wasn’t any more, and she tried to tell him, but he ignored her. He spun her around. She could feel the air against her back as he slid her dress forward over her arms.

There was no money, but there was a small gold locket gleaming against her slip. She felt it tighten around her neck in the moments before he lifted it over her head. When he released her, she shrugged the dress back into place.

She didn’t look at him.

“Who gave you this?”

She searched for an answer, but none occurred to her.

“Someone in the house?”

She knew if she said yes he would ask that person and find out the truth. She shook her head.

“Did you steal it, Nicolette?” His voice was quieter.

She was afraid now. He was very still, like the stable cat, Barney, right before he jumped on a mouse. “I never stole nothing.”

“Did one of the men give it to you?”

She started to say yes. Then she realized that if she did, her father would know she had been to the parlor before. She shook her head again. There was something about his expression that scared her more than his soft voice or the way he held himself. She didn’t know what to call the way his eyes narrowed, or the way he grew paler. She only knew she had to tell him the truth, because he was thinking of something worse.

“A lady gave it to me,” she said softly.

“What lady? Where?”

“A lady in a carriage.”

“When?”

She didn’t know how to measure days or weeks. Sometimes it was hotter, sometimes colder. It had been hot then, too, that was all she knew. She started to tell him that, then she brightened. She had a better answer after all. “On my birthday. She said it was a secret.”

He had been still before. Now he seemed carved of marble. “Go to your room and stay there,” he said at last.

“The lady said I could keep the necklace.” She held out her hand.

“Go to your room!”

She continued to hold out her hand. “Please?”

“If you go to the parlor again, I’ll send you away, Nicolette. Do you understand?”

Her hand fell to her side.

“If you talk to any of the men who come here—” he
paused, and his eyes grew colder “—or if you ever again speak to the lady who gave you this, I’ll send you away. Is that clear?”

“Away from Clarence and Violet?”

He stared at her. She thought he probably hated her. No one had ever stared at her that way before. Not even the duchess. Her eyes blurred, and she looked away from him. She thought she saw the gentleman who had spent the evening in Violet’s room standing in the kitchen doorway.

When she blinked, the gentleman was gone, and her father was walking away.

B
elinda lay stretched out beside Phillip, her thin cotton gown taut in sleep against her thighs. She never touched him as they slept, as if that were an unacceptable act of possession. She gave generously of herself, but she demanded nothing in return.

Phillip had never thought to offer anything, either, at least nothing of lasting value. He brought her gifts, bought all the groceries when he came to stay, took her out as often as she’d go. But he had viewed their relationship as he viewed the others in his life. They were together until they decided not to be. He would understand if another, more devoted, man claimed his place in her life. And she would understand if his work kept him away so long that by the time he returned they were strangers.

Now he lay with his hands folded behind his head and stared at her bedroom ceiling. The room was painted the dark red of garnets, and the ceiling was a deep brown. Morning sunshine filtered through sheer curtains, but the windows were narrow, and the light barely pierced the darkness.

Belinda’s home was her sanctuary, a place where she could retreat from a world that had never cared much about her. She had grown up in poverty, in a house where children slept three to a mattress and the oldest learned early how to cook and clean and mind the others. Her mother had died after the birth of the sixth baby, given up and died, Belinda had told Phillip once, because she couldn’t stand to open her eyes every morning and see the world she’d brought her kids into.

There had been four more brothers and sisters by her daddy’s second wife, and then her daddy had died, too, and the kids had been parceled out to family members who already had too many kids of their own. Belinda had been luckier than most of them. As one of the oldest, she had gone to live with her father’s aunt, an old woman, childless and nearly blind, who needed her help.

The remainder of her childhood and adolescence had been lean, with one dress for school, one dress for church and nothing different on the Sunday dinner table than on any other day. But the aunt had been kind, and after her death it had become clear why she had been so careful with her tiny pension. She had died with her life savings intact, and she had left it all to Belinda to use for college.

Nowadays, Belinda’s brothers and sisters were scattered all over. One brother hoed corn on an Arkansas prison farm. Another made a good living repairing television sets. Two of her sisters were married, with children of their own, and another had been found dead last year beside a Mississippi railroad track. The rest were gone, blown by the four winds to the far corners of the country. Every so often Belinda got a lead on one of them. Every so often it proved to be false.

Her past explained why she expected so little of Phillip. She
had been given one gift in her entire life, and she had used it well. She did not expect another. She did not expect Phillip to love her or to stay with her, or even to care about her in any significant way. People had come and people had gone, and eventually she expected him to be one of the latter.

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

The question was a welcome interruption. He turned so that he could see her face. Belinda came awake as she did everything else. She didn’t move. She didn’t make a sound. She lay perfectly still, as if she didn’t expect the world to adjust itself in any way just because she was back in it.

“You,” he said.

“Really?” She gave a sleepy morning smile. “Now there’s a way to start a morning.”

“What do you want from me, Belinda?”

She didn’t look surprised. Very little surprised her. “A cup of coffee would be nice. You know where the percolator is.”

“And after that?”

“Seems to me you’re leading up to something here.”

“Not sex, if that’s what you mean.”

“Could be a lot worse.”

“What do you think I’m leading up to?” he asked.

“Not a bacon-and-egg breakfast, that’s for sure.”

“You don’t expect anything from me, do you?”

She looked up at him through her lashes, not coyly, but as if she wanted to screen her thoughts. “No, I don’t. If you’re trying to tell me you’re leaving again, I expected it. Your suitcase is still packed, just like it always is. Did you get a call this morning?”

She was right about the suitcase. When Phillip lived with her, he never unpacked. He wore his clothes, washed them
and put them back inside, neatly folded. He bought clothes with an eye to how well they suited that routine.

“You’ve never made room in your closet for me,” he said.

“This about closet space, Phillip? You want space, there’s space.”

He didn’t know what the conversation was about. He just felt dissatisfied, like a child who has always gotten what he asks for and doesn’t know what to ask for next. “I’m not leaving. Unless you want me to go.”

“Did I say so?”

“You like your privacy.”

“You’re an easy man to be private with.”

“What about being personal with? Am I an easy man for that, too?”

She thought about it. For once, he could almost see her thoughts. “No,” she said at last. “Because it scares you.”

“And how about you? Does it scare you, too?”

“I don’t know.”

He knew she wasn’t hedging. She didn’t know, because intimacy had happened rarely, if at all, in her life. He was slapped by such a wave of tenderness for her that for a moment he couldn’t speak. He rested his palm against her cheek and burrowed his fingertips in her hair. “I never spent any time thinking about who I was or what I wanted. Now, I don’t think about much else.”

“It’s that woman.”

“Aurore Gerritsen?”

“You can’t sit there day after day listening to her and not think about your own life. You get to be that old, all you can do is wish you’d done things different. But you’re not that old. You’re young enough to know you still can.”

“What if I like what I see when I look at my life?”

“Then you keep on doing what you always do.”

“What about you? What do you see when you look at where you are? Where you’re going?”

“Maybe I’m a lot like this Mrs. Gerritsen. Maybe I just do what I have to and figure that’s good enough. I don’t know.”

He wanted to ask her where they were going. But he was afraid she would turn the question around, and then what would he say?

She scooted a little closer and threw her arm over his shoulders. He could feel her long fingers against the back of his neck. He didn’t even know he’d been tense until he began to relax.

Aurore hadn’t slept most of the night. When she was a young woman, a sleepless night hadn’t completely depleted her. She’d spent many sleepless nights lying beside her husband, and she’d gotten up the next morning anyway and done what needed to be done.

This morning she could barely dress herself, but she struggled through it. She supposed the time would come soon when she would have to ask for help. Her fingers would stiffen, or tremble too hard; her legs would give way when she tried to stand. But until that definitive moment, she would not give in.

She was waiting in the library for Phillip when he arrived. There was no fire today, since the weather had taken a warm turn, as it so often did in February. Sunlight poured in through the French doors and caressed the leather-bound volumes that her oldest son, Hugh, had so loved.

She was leafing through one when Phillip walked in. She held it up. “You’ve heard that you can’t judge a book by its cover?”

“I’ve heard it.”

She closed the book. “Well, that’s what my husband did. He went to a book dealer on Royal Street and bought everything you see on these shelves, without ever reading a page. He bought the entire contents of a philosophy professor’s library, just because he liked the color of the leather.”

“A man who lived for appearances?”

“Henry Gerritsen was many things.” She replaced that volume and removed another. “As it turned out, this was one of the better things he did. Henry was not an intellectual, but our son Hugh devoured these books, along with every other piece of reading material he could get his hands on.”

“Was your other son a voracious reader, too?”

She didn’t look at him. “Ferris hadn’t the patience, still doesn’t, although he’s every bit as intelligent as his brother was.”

“I’ve thought from the beginning that the difference between your two sons might be the reason you invited me here. That perhaps you were trying to side with Hugh, somehow, by asking a black man to write your story.”

She was surprised that he hadn’t figured out the real truth yet. But the fact that he hadn’t said everything about secrets in his own life. “Taking sides was never my intention.”

“But you don’t seem surprised I might think so.”

“There is very little someone of my age finds surprising.”

“Until I met you, I thought I was particularly good at turning questions and comments to suit my purposes. Now I think I’m a novice.”

“A story unfolds as it’s meant to, and in no other way.” She put the second volume back, as well, and moved to the sofa. While she seated herself, Phillip set up the recorder. Then he settled himself on the love seat and took out his notebook.

“I wasn’t at all certain you’d come back today,” she said, when he was ready.

“I said I would.”

“What I told you yesterday must be very distasteful to you.”

“Because I’m a Negro and so was your daughter?”

“Because you’re a human being and what I did goes against everything we believe about ourselves. We believe that we’ll fight to the death for our children, protect them at all costs. Then we discover that it’s not always true.”

“Did you ever see your daughter again?”

She settled back against the cushions. “Yes, I did. It took me some time to find her. Étienne changed her name, as I knew he would. But he changed his own, as well. From the moment that he came and took my daughter, I looked for her. But she was nearly six before I found her again.”

“Will you tell me what he named her?”

She nodded. She wondered what the name would tell him and how much he would understand immediately. She was certain that by the end of their time together today he would understand most of it.

“Nicolette,” she said. “He called her Nicolette. And, as you might expect, he took back his own name. He called himself Rafe. Rafe Cantrelle.”