Tar Baby (21 page)

“What the hell happened to you?” He ran to her and put the bottle on the seat. She didn’t look up, just wiped her eyes and said, “I took a walk over there and fell in.”

“Over where?”

“There. Behind those trees.”

“Fell in what? That looks like oil.”

“I don’t know. Mud I guess, but it felt like jelly while I was in it. But it doesn’t come off like jelly. It’s drying and sticking.”

Son kneeled down and stroked her skin. The black stuff was shiny in places and where it was dry it was like mucilage. Nothing much was happening with her leaves. He shook some drops of the gasoline onto a clean place in her skirt and handed it to her. She took it and continued to clean herself in silence. He poured the gas into the tank and they waited for a few minutes for it to get into the line, and only when the motor finally caught did Jadine hazard a glance back at the place where she’d gone in. She could not identify the tree that had danced with her.

Son drove slowly up the hill to conserve the gas. He glanced at her from time to time, but could see she was not about to be consoled easily. He decided to tease her gently.

“That’s where the swamp women live,” he said. “You see any?”

She didn’t answer.

“They mate with the horsemen up in the hills.”

“Oh, shut up. Just shut up.”

“I just thought you might have seen one.”

“Look,” she said. “I might have died. That mess was up to my knees. Don’t try to cheer me up; it’s not funny! Just drive, will you, and get me home so I can get this shit off me!”

“Okay, okay,” he said, and smiled because he liked her sitting next to him in her underwear. Liked it so much it was hard to look serious when they drove up to the house and Margaret, sitting on the living room patio, came round to see who it was.

“An accident,” said Jadine before Margaret could shift her stare from the underwear to Son. “I took a walk and fell in the swamp.”

“My God,” said Margaret. “You poor thing. You must have been scared out of your mind. Where was
he
?” She jutted her chin at Son’s back as he drove the jeep to the kitchen side of the house.

“At the dock getting gas. We ran out.” Jadine was hurrying into the house. Her legs were burning from the gasoline. “I have to get in the tub.”

Margaret followed her. “Soap first. Then alcohol. Jesus, what
is
that stuff? It looks like pitch.”

In the bedroom Jadine took off halter and panties and tiptoed into the bathroom.

“He’s bad luck, Jade. He really is. Any time anybody gets near him, something happens.”

“Except Valerian,” said Jadine. “He’s good luck for Valerian.”

“That figures,” said Margaret. “Turpentine’s better, honey. You have any?”

“No. But it’s coming off all right with the soap. I won’t be able to wax my legs for a week now. God, it burns.”

“He’s bad luck, Jade. Really. I just know it.”

“Don’t worry, Margaret, Michael will show. You’ll see.”

“I hope so. It’s going to be so nice. I’m cooking everything myself, did I tell you?”

“You told me.”

“He hasn’t been here since he was fourteen. I could like this place if he’d stay. I could like everything about it. He won’t spoil it, will he?”

“Who?”

“Him. Willie.”

“No. Why would he? He’s leaving as soon as Valerian hears from the consulate. What are you afraid of?”

“Well, Jade, he was in my closet.”

“He isn’t there now. What’s the matter, Margaret? You think he wants your bod?”

“I don’t know what I think. I’m all nerves. This place makes me crazy and so does he. Look at you, you go off with him, step out of a car and fall in a mudhole.”

“Margaret, I fell in, not you. And it was my fault, not his.” Jadine surprised herself; she was defending him against her. She thought it was gone—that mistrust, that stupid game she and Margaret used to play. Any minute now, Margaret would be reaching out her hand and saying “What’d ja do to yer hay-er? What’d ja do to yer hay-er?” like white girls all over the world, or telling her about Dorcus, the one black girl she ever looked in the face. But there was a little bit more in her annoyance now. Maybe she should just say it. He doesn’t want you, Margaret. He wants me. He’s crazy and beautiful and black and poor and beautiful and he killed a woman but he doesn’t want you. He wants me and I have the fingerprint to prove it. But she didn’t say any of that; she said she wanted to sleep now. Margaret left but her alarm stayed behind. Jadine got into bed and discovered she was jealous of Margaret of all people. Just because he was in her closet, she thought his sole purpose in life was to seduce her. Naturally her. A white woman no matter how old, how flabby, how totally sexless, believed it and she could have shot him for choosing Margaret’s closet and giving her reason to believe it was true.

God. Jadine turned over carefully to protect her raw legs. I am competing with her for rape! She thinks this place is driving her crazy; it’s making a moron out of me. Certified.

It took some time before she could fall asleep. The soap had done its job. The little feet he wanted so badly to see were clean again, peachy soft again as though they had never been touched and never themselves had touched the ground.

6

C
HRISTMAS
E
VE’S EVE
and even the goddamn hydrangea had bloomed!

The whole island was vomiting up color like a drunk and here in the corner, in plastic filtered light, was one spot of sane, refined mauve. Valerian sprayed it with water and aerated the soil around the stem. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and toasted the shy violet buds with his wineglass. Maybe Margaret was right: this would be a warm and memorable Christmas. The black man had brought luck to the greenhouse, maybe he’d bring luck to the whole celebration. Michelin would be there; Michael, Michael’s friend; that was just enough. And Margaret was sober and busy and cheerfully preoccupied with something outside herself for a change.

Valerian walked away from the hydrangea and looked out the window toward the washhouse. The washerwoman was there, bless her heart, with the yard boy. He couldn’t hear them, but they looked as though they were laughing. A nip, he thought. They’re already celebrating and have taken a Christmas nip. He liked that. That was the way a holiday ought to begin and since everything was in its place as it should be—Michael coming, Margaret cooking, hydrangea in bloom—he decided to go out there with the servants and wish them a Merry Christmas too. All that was needed was that holiday bread Grandmother Stadt used to make. Ollieballen.

“Ollieballen?”

“Yes. My grandmother used to make it at New Year.”

“The Candy Queen?” asked Margaret. “I never heard of it.”

“It’s not hard,” said Valerian. “It’s Dutch.”

“What’s it taste like?”

“Sweet. Like a doughnut.”

“We can’t serve doughnuts at dinner, Valerian.”

“It’s not for dinner, it’s for afterward. With brandy and coffee.”

“This is going to be hard enough without ollieballen.”

“Then let’s forget the whole thing.”

“No. I said I’d do it and I’m going to. Michael will get a kick out of it.”

“So will Ondine.”

“Maybe. I’ve never seen her eat anything.”

“Nobody ever sees a cook eat anything. Let’s go over the menu again. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans—what else?”

“The lemon whip and this ollieballen thing.”

“You can use the apples in it. It’s easier than pie and it’s traditional in our family—or it was. What about something to start? Soup or fish?”

“Valerian.”

“Something simple. You can handle it.”

“You’ll help?”

“I’ll be entertaining the guests. I can’t do both. And that’s not what you said. You said you’d do the whole dinner for everybody.”

“So how many is that? Six?”

“Seven. It’ll be fun. You’ll enjoy it. Don’t forget it was your suggestion.”

“How do you get seven?”

“B.J. has a girlfriend, doesn’t he? So there’s me, you and Michael, B.J. and his guest, Jade and Michelin. Seven. The turkey is here—beans, potatoes—nothing to it. You can make the ollieballen ahead of time. Christmas Eve.”

“You have the recipe?”

“I have it.”

“What do I need?”

“Nothing special: yeast, eggs, milk, sugar, lemon, flour, raisins, apples and butter.”

“What about the lemon whip?”

“Just lemon-flavored gelatin beaten to froth and whipped cream on top. Very simple. We can have smoked fish, perhaps, to start. All that needs is parsley. The lemon whip is a light sweet for after a heavy dinner. Then coffee and brandy with the ollieballen.” Valerian spread his fingers to show how easy it was. He wanted her occupied the next few days—not sitting around in anxiety about when (or if) Michael would get there.

“Doughnuts and brandy,” she said, and shook her head.

“Margaret.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Just sounded funny that’s all.”

“They don’t have a hole in the middle.”

“Too bad,” she said. “It might inspire you.”

“I’m sorry about last night. That wasn’t why I came. I’ve been hateful and I know it. I shouldn’t have behaved that way when you found Willie up there in your closet.”

“We’ve been through all that. Forget it.”

“It worked out okay, didn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“You should see the greenhouse now. Black magic.”

“Really?”

“Really. You should come and see. And I
am
sorry, Margaret. I liked what you did though.”

“Sure. We’ll do it again sometime.”

“Soon?”

“Soon.”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Valerian. I mean I can’t just lie down in the middle of the afternoon.”

“I can. I can even kneel. Might need help getting back up, but I can do it.”

“No. Wait.”

“Margie. Marge.”

“W
HAT KIND
of dinner is that? I wouldn’t have it for lunch. Does she think she’s doing me a favor?”

“Stop grumbling. It’s Christmastime and for once in your life you don’t have to cook the dinner.”

“But I have to do the dishes, I bet.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Who then? You? No Mary. No Yardman. They decide not to show up without telling anybody. Everything’s on me. A pile of laundry a mile high in there. Jadine off playing games with that jailbird; guests coming…”

“I told you he already called Dr. Michelin, and Dr. Michelin said he’d get us somebody right away. Maybe not right away because they got Christmas there too, but he thinks his housekeeper can find somebody. We’ll just have to make do for a day or two. Let the laundry stay there, and get yourself organized. You are worrying the life out of me.”

“You can stop riding me any time you please. And if you expect anything at all to go right, you better quit soon.”

“You the one riding people. You been hot for days. Nothing can please you.”

“The whole house is upset. Hard to think and be nice in a house that’s upset.”

“The house is not upset. You are. Everybody else is laughing and having a good time but you. Mr. Street slept with his wife last night. You know how long it’s been since he did that? Slept in the same bed with her?”

“Slept is the word all right.”

“Don’t you believe it. They been cooing all morning.”

“I don’t care. They ought to sleep together. I never did know how he puts up with that. Whoever heard of married folks sleeping any other way but together. They can sleep anywhere they want. It’s where Jadine sleeps that bothers me.”

“She slept in her own bed.”

“I’m going to bring this basin down on your head. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, what you want me to do about it?”

“Talk to somebody.”

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Get away from me.”

“Sydney, listen here. I don’t like it. None of it. What she want to mess with him for? He ain’t got a dime and no prospect of one.”

“She’s just playing. Nothing much else to do out here, you know that. Cleaned him up and he looks fine and even acts all right. Look here. They pack a lunch, go off to the beach and swim a little. What is that? Marriage? First you was screaming because you thought she was going to marry some white boy; now she goes swimming with one of us and you still mad. Jadine’s not a fool and he’s okay.”

“He is not okay.”

“When he busted in here you were the one trying to get me to calm down. I was ready to shoot him. Now you the one want the gun.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“What you afraid of? She’s not going off with him. Just because you foolish, don’t think she is. She’s worked hard to make something out of herself, and nothing will make her throw it all away on a swamp nigger.”

“It ain’t what she thinks that worries me. It’s what he thinks.”

“You know something I don’t?”

“No.”

“Well then.”

“But I’ve seen his eyes when nobody’s looking. At least when he thinks nobody’s looking.”

“And what did you see in his eyes, Ondine?”

“Wildness. Plain straight-out wildness. He wants her, Sydney. And he’ll do what he has to do to get her and what he has to to keep her.”

“Takes two, Ondine. He can’t kidnap her.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Mr. Street likes him.”

“He likes him because Jadine likes him.”

“No. He helped him with those plants in there. Made something grow that was dying.”

“He wants to keep him here so Jade will stay and if Jadine stays then his wife might stay and if Michael does show up maybe she won’t want to go running off after him.”

“Well. Maybe he’s right.”

“Don’t rely on it. If that boy gets in she’ll be out of here like a shot. She’s got a lot of cleaning up to do with Michael. It’s sitting on her heart and she’s never going to have no peace until she cleans it up. She’ll trail him to the end of the world and God himself knows that is exactly where she ought to be.”

“You hate that woman, and you want her out of here so you can run everything your way.”

“I don’t hate her; I feel sorry for her, to tell the truth.”

“Want some more hot water in there?”

“No, this is fine.”

“It’s going to be all right, Ondine. She is coming in the kitchen to cook Christmas dinner. And you have to get out of the way. Maybe it’ll taste bad, but it’s only for one night. We can behave for one night, can’t we? Then it’ll be over and everything will be back to normal.”

“Everything but my feet.”

“Your feet too. Put ’em up here. Let me rub them for you.”

“They not going to last much longer, you know. I get the littlest cut on them now and it don’t seem to heal. I have to stand up to do the work I do, if I can’t stand then I can’t work.”

“When you can’t stand, girl, sit down. You don’t have to work. I can take care of you, you know that.”

“We don’t have a place of our own. And the little bit of savings went to Jadine. Not that I regret a penny of it; I don’t.”

“We got a few stocks and Social Security. Years of it. Remember how I tried to get Mr. Street not to take it out, back when we first started, and he wouldn’t listen to me? Now I appreciate the fact that he didn’t.”

“Such a smart little girl, and so pretty. I never minded not having children after we started taking care of her. I would have stood on my feet all day all night to put her through that school. And when my feet were gone, I would have cooked on my knees.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“She crowned me, that girl did. No matter what went wrong or how tired I was, she was my crown.”

“He helped too, you know. We never could have done it without him.”

“And I’m grateful. You know I am. I’ve never had no problem with him. He’s a nuisance, but he stood by us when we needed him to.”

“And she never objected to it, Ondine. A lot of wives would have.”

“I suppose.”

“Lay back. Put your legs up on this pillow. Rest yourself and don’t worry about nothing. Nothing’s going to change. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“She wouldn’t up and marry some no-count Negro, would she? I don’t care how good-looking and sweet-talking he is. You didn’t say nothing about stuffin. Is she going to stuff that bird or just roast him empty?”

“Rest, girl.”

“And what the devil is lemon whip?”

N
OBODY CAME
. At least none of the invited. The emperor butterflies flew in the window, but they were not invited, nor were the bees. They were roused by the six-part singing of the tin-tin birds sitting in formation at the top of the bougainvillea. But the maiden aunts weren’t there, thank God, with their wispy maiden aunt hair. Still nobody came. Uninvited and emergency guests shared dinner on Christmas Day. First the telephone operator read off the cable from B. J. Bridges: “Boston weather cannot fly okay postpone New Year.” Then Dr. Michelin called with regrets saying the crossing would be too rough. Finally customs
contrôle
reported there was no red trunk on the last flight arriving at nine in the morning from Miami, and there was no Houston flight at all that day. More telephone calls. Michael did not answer his telephone. Margaret would have caved in Christmas Eve except for the busy-ness of confirming the disaster: more placing of calls—forty-five-minute waits until they were connected; more cables with “confirm delivery” instructions; Michael’s neighbors were summoned, but the number had changed or the neighbors had; his old girlfriends were asked to go to his house and check. Had he left? When? But it was the day before Christmas and people had other things to do. Then there was the wrapping of gifts, the ollieballen to make, the turkey that was really a goose to prepare. Margaret was too tired to feel her sorrow at its deepest point until Christmas Day dawned bright and secular and nobody at all came to L’Arbe de la Croix, and nobody was in his proper place. Ondine was in the bathtub. Margaret was in the kitchen. Sydney was in the greenhouse cutting flowers for the table. Jadine was in the washhouse waiting for a dryer load to conclude. And Valerian was by the telephone placing incomplete calls. Son, who had no place of his own, got in everybody’s way. The exchange of gifts, scheduled for Michael’s arrival, took place anywhere, furtively and without fanfare or enthusiasm. When it was certain that no one was coming and the day looked as if it belonged to the tin-tin birds and not to family and friends, Valerian, to raise Margaret’s spirits probably or simply to get through the day, said, “Let’s all sit down and have the dinner among ourselves. Everybody. Jade, Willie, Ondine, Sydney.” They would all have a good time, he said. Margaret nodded, and left the kitchen, where the uses of things now eluded her completely. She was in control the night before—enough to wash the fowl whose legs would not stand up as they ought to. But the ollieballen recipe slipped out of reach entirely. Sydney rescued it and now when Valerian called her away from the kitchen she seemed not to care one way or another. It was just another meal now and the dinner she had planned to cook Ondine had to finish, including the lemon whip. Ondine was persuaded to dress up and join Sydney and the others in the dining room partly because she’d had the foresight to bake a ham and a coconut cake and would not be required to eat Margaret’s menu and partly because she’d have to eat alone otherwise, but she was deeply unhappy about being thrown out of her kitchen in the first place and then pushed back in when Margaret abandoned the whole thing halfway through because the guests were different. She was also unhappy because she thought Jadine had secret plans to leave right after Christmas. A few days ago she had the humiliation of Alma Estée handing her a pair of recently worn pajamas that she found in the gardenia bushes underneath Jadine’s bedroom. Ondine took them and did not mention the find to anyone, but it worried her. Jadine’s scurrilous remarks about Son seemed too pointed, too loud. Sydney took the invitation in stride. The suggestion of a special and intimate relationship with his employer pleased him more than it disconcerted him. And what was unthinkable and undesirable in Philadelphia was not so on that island. In addition, it leveled, in a way, the invitation Mr. Street had extended to Son when everybody thought he was a burglar. More than leveled—this invitation was formal and sober although it was an emergency solution to a rapidly deteriorating holiday.