Rafe (5 page)

Le Grande Hotel … her mother's last letter had instructed her to proceed there and await transportation to Claytonville. Claytonville. What was it like now? Her mother had never said, beyond the news of the changed name. “Fitzman Corners has a new name,” she wrote, “Claytonville. Your stepfather seems inordinately proud of same. I am of the opinion Fitzman Corners had a nobler ring to it, but have had little to say on the matter as, indeed, on all matters these days.” From then on the frequency of the letters had declined. Those that did arrive were more and more vague and at times nonsensical and incoherent, leading to dark and ominous thoughts Crissa couldn't dispel.

A dark hand reaching for her broke the spell. A tall, well-dressed Negro spoke in the thick dialect she hadn't heard for four years. Recognizing only the inflection, not the words, she alighted from the carriage and entered the lobby. Le Grande Hotel! The memories rushed pell-mell. A thirteen-year-old girl at her first formal ball. How Le Grande glittered! A fourteen-year-old in bitter mourning for her father. How heavy, how solemn the somber lobby. And now at twenty, a young woman more than a little lost in the confusion of a disquieting homecoming.

A short, squat gentleman tipped his hat in front of her and inquired in thickly accented speech if he might not be of assistance to the mademoiselle. She shook her head and declined in perfectly accented French. The portly gentleman lifted his eyebrows in new esteem of the young woman, bowed and walked off, following the several porters struggling up the stairs with his luggage. He barked at them, urging them to hurry, and when one moved too slowly to suit him, swung his cane viciously to catch the old, white-haired slave a stinging blow across the back of his calves. The porter jerked violently, swivelled his head about and, eyes wide with fright, stumbled and went tumbling down the stairs, the heavy trunk rolling over him on the way down. The Frenchman broke into a string of Gallic expletives and hurried down the stairs to inspect the damage while the desk clerk, all apologies, rushed from behind the counter and nodded obsequiously as the Frenchman pointed out each scuff and scratch on the shining trunk.

Half-forgotten for the moment, the old slave staggered to his feet, his left arm hanging limply at his side. He tried to make his way unseen to the rear of the lobby but the desk clerk grabbed him by the shirt, spoke in a rapid, hissing whisper and dragged the poor soul to the door and booted him in the baggy, worn seat of his pants. The old man squeaked in pain as his broken arm struck the door on his way out. The Frenchman nodded in satisfaction and the clerk, all efficiency, clapped his hands and another black, a younger man this time, scurried from around the corner of the desk, hoisted the trunk onto his back and started up the stairs.

Crissa watched the whole episode with face set in grim distaste. Finally she could take no more, and the amused chatter and laughter of everyone else in the lobby ringing in her ears, she made her way into the street in search of the old man. He was gone. Confused, she turned to her right and made her way along the front of the hotel, glancing down the alley at the end of the building. The alley appeared empty, but as she started down the street again, a soft moan stopped her. She glanced about apprehensively and then entered the dimly lit alley, her slippers barely making a sound on the packed dirt.

The old man, some ten feet beyond the bright line of light, sat on a small, discarded box half-hidden by a barrel, cradling his shattered arm and rocking back and forth in pain. Crissa, nervous now, gasped lightly as the slave turned quickly toward her, his eyes wide with fright at the sight of the young white woman whose strawberry-gold tresses framed an almost perfect face.

The two stared at each other for perhaps thirty seconds, each taking the measure of the other, both nervous and confused by the strangeness of the situation. Finally Crissa reached inside her purse and took out a gold eagle. The coin glittered in the shadow, drawing the old man's eyes to it in spite of the pain.

“Take it,” she whispered, hurriedly. The slave hesitated. He licked his thin, cracked lips and stretched out his good right arm. “It's enough to fix your arm and then some. I'm sorry it isn't more.”

Suddenly the old man's eyes clouded with fear and his hand jerked back as if burned.

“That's more than he's worth.”

Crissa jumped and whirled about. A soldier, his face hidden in shadow, stood no more than a pace behind her, blocking the alley. He was a white man, but she could tell little else.

“They'll say he stole it,” the soldier said, a touch of cold amusement in his voice.

Now she was angry. The stranger's amusement bespoke an impudence that fed her frustration born of the injustice she had just witnessed and felt so keenly. Words rushed from her in a torrent. “You have no right! The poor man has a broken arm. Someone has to be kind to him and treat him like a human being. I'll give what I please to whom I please. Why don't you go … go fight a war or something!” And without waiting for the soldier's reply, she turned back to the old slave who by this time had gotten up and was attempting to slip away unnoticed. “Wait!” she called. The old man stopped dead in his tracks. “Come back.”

The old man turned, shaking with fear. His mouth moved but no words came out. Slowly he took a step toward her, then stopped again, torn between advance and retreat. Crissa walked purposefully to him, took his good right hand and folded his fingers around the ten dollar gold piece. The old man stared first at his hand, then into his benefactress's eyes.

“Go and see to your arm. No one will harm you,” she said gently. The old man scuttled down the alley, disappearing around a corner at the rear of the hotel.

Crissa smiled in satisfaction. At least someone had acted honorably. And as for the soldier.… But he was gone. Proud of herself for speaking so forcefully to him and driving him off, she started for the mouth of the alley only to see him step back around the corner and stand waiting for her. There was nothing to do but continue. She had outbluffed him once and could surely do so again.

She had almost reached the street when the soldier stepped back and bowed in deference. All she could see of him was a shock of bright red, unruly hair, previously suppressed by a chapeau bras, the bicorn hat so much in fashion in military circles. The hair was familiar, and now that she thought of it, so the voice had been. It couldn't be.…

The soldier straightened up. “Hello, Crissa.”

“Steve … oh, Steve,” Crissa cried in surprise. “Was that you?”

“I thought you'd recognize me.”

“In a dark alley? And after four years? Oh, Steve,” she broke off, running to embrace her childhood beau. He held her tightly, his arms encircling her, his lips seeking hers. She pulled back abruptly. “How naughty of you. All I could see was the outline of some horrid soldier. Are you a soldier now? How silly you look. Oh, how very, very funny.”

Steve drew back, affronted by her comments, only to find himself immediately engulfed again in Crissa's exuberant embrace. He returned her affections rather coolly.

“Steven Bennett, don't be stuffy. I'm only teasing you.”

“I'm not hurt, Crissa. Obviously Major Reynolds and the United States Army don't think I look silly. I received my captain's bars and commission only just last week.”

“It's also obvious, Captain Steven Bennett,” Crissa drawled coquettishly, “that Major so-and-so and the United States Army never ever went skinny dippin' with you in the creek back of the plantation.”

“Crissa, please!” Steve looked cautiously about, but the passing pedestrians paid them little heed. “Let's go back to the hotel.” He took her arm and guided her back the way she had come. “You came tearing out of there like a woman possessed and walked right past me without so much as a glance. What happened?”

“What happened, Captain Steven Bennett, was a poor old man had his arm broken because some pompous idiot thought to beat some strength into the poor soul's withered frame. I gave him some money to get it fixed and buy himself some food. It looked as if it had been awhile since he'd last eaten.”

“That's for his master to worry about, not some stranger. Especially a young girl like yourself. Besides, you'll get him in even more trouble. Who's going to believe that old nigger when he tells them a white woman gave him a whole ten dollar gold piece just because his arm was broken? One or two dollars they might believe, but ten! It was a silly, childish gesture.”

“Steve. I've spent the last four years at school. I am now twenty years old and think of myself as a woman. I would appreciate you doing the same.”

“Now that
is
silly.”

“Captain Bennett, are we going to spoil what should be a pleasant reunion between old and dear friends?”

“Seeing you crouched in an alley with some white-haired nigger after three weeks alone at sea without a chaperone is more than.…”

“I think that will be quite enough, Captain. I don't wish to continue this conversation. I assume you have come to escort me to the plantation. Very well. But I will not listen to such language. If you are so proud of your uniform, you could at least behave with the gallantry it represents.” She stopped, disengaging her arm from his. “I shall dine at eight in the main dining room. If you wish to join me, I shall be delighted to share your company. I hope to find you suitably courteous at that time.” She haughtily turned from the flustered officer and entered the main door of the hotel, leaving her perplexed suitor behind in the street. Steve took off his hat and slapped it against his leg in an age-old gesture of confusion. What man can understand the complex nature of the woman he had dreamed of marrying for all these years?

Crissa Fitzman, clad only in a cotton shift, lay across the broad double bed, listening to the sounds of early evening. The exotic clamor of the French Quarter seeped through the closed shutters and hung heavily in the humid, still air. Sweat streaked her bare neck and rippled across her shoulders until even the shift was too much and she rose abruptly, pulled the garment over her head and stood naked in the light of the pitiful coal oil lamp on the dresser. Steve's words echoed in her mind. A silly girl, indeed. She took a cloth from the rack and dipped it into the basin, wrung it out and wiped the sweat from her neck and shoulders. The cooling towel passed over her breasts, tightening the skin deliciously. She turned to the mirror and gazed at herself. The light from the lamp gave a golden hue to her skin and sculpted her form with deep shadows. Young, firm breasts, swollen slightly from the light touch of the towel, stood in firm relief, each half in shadow, half in light. Her stomach was flat and flowed gracefully to the gentle mounds of mons and hips below, so delicately accentuated by yet more gleaming dark gold hair. Her thighs were full yet firm, her calves shapely and rounded. She placed her hands under her breasts, palpitating them gently with her palms and fingers, then watched, pleased, as the nipples, tingling, swelled with a life of their own. A silly girl, indeed!

The clock behind her struck the familiar melody and she sighed and left the mirror. It was time to bathe and dress, then join Steve in the dining room.
Captain
Steve Bennett … well, why not? He was handsome enough, intelligent enough. A soldier, true, and she could wish he were not, but what else was there for a man to aspire to in a town like Claytonville? Or, without money, in the whole of western Louisiana, for that matter. One could be a shopkeeper or join the military. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to be a shopkeeper in Claytonville.

Crissa scowled at the thought of the town once named for her father. When she left for the north and school it had been called Fitzman Corners. Two years later her mother had told her of the change. She wondered what other changes had been made at the plantation during her absence. How radically had the man who had married her mother, a man she had barely gotten to know before leaving, altered the home she remembered? Already she could feel the resentment coming back, building inside her.

“I would have thought four years would have changed things, made them easier to accept. How strange.…” Crissa mused aloud. Her words only accentuated the hollow emptiness of the room. She sank into the tub, letting the cooling water envelop her, drifting farther back in a dream of her childhood which spread before her like a feast of genuinely happy memories.

The pecan grove, full of echoes of children playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, was her most cherished spot. Acres of richly laden trees formed a wonderland of cool, shadowed sanctuaries, safe from the fierce southern sun. The sun burned Crissa nearly as dark as the Negro children with whom she played. Her father kidded her about her deep tan and called her “his little darkie.”

And there was Ephraim. Dear, kind, “Pa-Paw” Ephraim, the old slave who saved her life and lost an arm in the process. Crissa, barely ten, had wandered from the other children and was sulking over having lost a foot race when the cottonmouth struck. She caught little more than a glimpse of the darting head and curved fangs before her vision was blocked by a black arm. The snake caught Ephraim on the forearm instead of hitting Crissa on the face and the little girl watched, screaming in fear, as the slave tore the dripping fangs from their venomous hold, and whirling the cottonmouth high overhead, dashed it against a nearby pecan tree before he collapsed.

Crissa ran for help and Ephraim was carried back to the main house. Pa-Paw Ephraim lived, but the wound festered, turned gangrenous, and Crissa's father ordered the arm removed. Later, in front of Crissa, John Fitzman gave Ephraim his freedom, secretly of course, and hired him to care for the pecan grove, a duty the black man dearly loved.

Crissa had to smile at the memory of the good-hearted, gentle soul. The way he called the trees his children. He used to tell her, “Chile, ah'm tendin' dese trees fo' de Lawd. When he come on de judgemen' day, he gonna find dis ol' nigger done kep' a place fo' him. Yassuh. Yore Pa-Paw done kep' a place fo' de Lawd to git outa de sun.” Pa-Paw Ephraim. He would still be in his grove. Surely there were some things not even four years and Ezra Clayton could change.