Darkest Hour (10 page)

"Go on," he coaxed. "Try it."

I took a deep breath and thought I'd wish for something titillating. I wished that Niles and I could exchange a kiss. I couldn't help myself because when I closed my eyes, I saw us doing it. After I dipped my fingers in the water, I stood up again and opened my eyes.

"You can tell me your wish if you want," he said. "It won't stop it from coming true."

"I can't," I said. I don't know if I was blushing or if he could see my wish in my eyes, but he looked like he understood.

"You know what I did yesterday?" he said. "I came here and wished that somehow, I would be able to get you to come here and see the pond. And look," he said, holding out his arms. "You're here. Do you want to tell me your wish now?" I shook my head. "I wished for something else," he said. His eyes turned softer, meeting and locking with mine. "I wished that you would be the first girl I ever kissed."

The moment he said it, I felt my heart stop and then begin to pound. How could he have wished for the same thing and at this very spot? Was this really a magical pond? I looked at the water again and then turned back to him. I saw his eyes, his dark eyes wistfully waiting, and I closed mine. With my heart thumping, I started to lean toward him and then felt the soft, warm touch of his lips on mine. It was a quick kiss, almost too quick to believe it had happened, but it had. When I opened my eyes, I found him still so close, his lips could touch mine in an instant again. He opened his eyes, too, and then he stepped back.

"Don't be angry," he said quickly. "I couldn't help myself."

"I'm not angry."

"You're not?"

"No." I bit down on my lips and then I confessed it. "I wished for the same thing," I said, and turned quickly to run back up the path before my heart burst. I charged out on the road, gasping for breath. My hair had broken loose and fell about my forehead and cheeks. For a moment I was so excited, I didn't see her. But when I turned and looked in the direction of the school, there was Emily, plodding along. She stopped in her tracks. A moment later, Niles emerged from the woods, too.

And my heart which had become as light as a feather turned into a lump of lead. Without hesitation, I ran all the way home, Emily's accusing eyes chasing me. I could hear her screaming, "Jezebel," even after I had closed the door behind me.

5

I sat on my bed in my room, shivering with fear. I didn't see Mamma when I walked into the house, but when I passed Papa's office, I saw the door was opened and I caught a glimpse of him working at his desk, a spiral of smoke rising from his big cigar in the ashtray, his tumbler of bourbon and mint beside it. He didn't look up from his papers. I hurried upstairs and fixed my hair, but no matter how hard I scrubbed my cheeks, I couldn't get the redness out of them. I would look guilty and ashamed for the rest of my life, I thought. And why? What did I do that was so terrible?

If anything, I thought, it had been wonderful. I had kissed a boy . . . full on the lips and for the first time! It hadn't been like it was in Mamma's romance novels. Niles hadn't put his arms around me and pulled me to him, sweeping me off my feet; but to me, it was just as exciting as those long, famous kisses the women in Mamma's books always had, their hair blowing in the wind or the shoulders bare so that the man's lips would find the way to them over their necks. The thought of his doing that both frightened

and excited me. Would I swoon? Would I grow limp in his arms and become helpless like the women in Mamma's novels?

I sprawled out on my bed to dream about it, to dream about Niles and me and . . .

Suddenly, I heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway, but it wasn't Emily's and it wasn't Mamma's. It was Papa's heavy steps. The click of his boot heels on the wooden floor were unmistakable. I sat up quickly and held my breath, expecting him to go by to his bedroom, but he paused at my door and a moment later, opened it and stepped in, closing the door softly behind him.

Papa rarely came to my room. I thought I could count the times on my fingers when he had. Once, Mamma brought him in to show him where she wanted some work done on my closets, claiming they had to be expanded. Then when I'd had the measles, he came just inside the doorway to see me, but he hated being around sick children, and visited with Eugenia only a little more than he did with me. Whenever he did step into my room, I remember thinking how big he was and how small my things looked beside him. It was like Gulliver in Lilliput, I thought, recalling the story I had just recently read.

But Papa always seemed different to me in different rooms. He was most uncomfortable in the living room with all of its dainty furnishings and accoutrements. It was as if he thought his merely touching Mamma's expensive vases and figurines with his big hands and thick fingers would crumble them to dust. He looked very ill at ease on the silk settee or in the thin-framed, high-backed chair. He wanted his furniture thick, wide, firm and heavy, and he roared with displeasure every time Mamma complained about the way he plopped down in one of her expensive French Provencal chairs.

He never raised his voice in Eugenia's room. He moved about it reverently. I knew that he was just as afraid of touching Eugenia as he was of touching Mamma's precious things. But he was never one to show great affection. If he kissed Eugenia or me when we were little girls, it was always a quick peck on the cheek, his lips snapping on our skin. And then, as if it made him choke to do so, he always had to clear his throat. I never saw him kiss Emily. He behaved the same way toward Mamma, never holding her or kissing her, never embracing her in any loving way in our presence. She didn't seem to mind though, so Eugenia and I, whenever we discussed it, simply assumed that that was the way things should be between husband and wife, no matter what we read in books. However, I couldn't help but wonder if that was why Mamma loved her romance novels so much—it was the only place she found any romance.

At the dinner table, Papa always appeared the most aloof, bearing down on us during the religious readings and blessings like some high official of the church just visiting, and then becoming lost in his meal and his own thoughts unless something Mamma said snapped him out of them. His voice was usually deeper, harsher. Whenever he had to speak or answer a question, he usually did so quickly, giving me the feeling he wished he could take his dinners alone and not be distracted by his family.

In his office, he was always the Captain, sitting behind his desk or moving about with a military demeanor—his shoulders back and straight, his head high, his chest out. Under the portrait of his father dressed in his Confederate army uniform with his saber glinting in the sunlight, Papa sat booming orders to the servants and especially to Henry, who often entered only a few inches past the doorway and stood waiting, hat in hand. Everyone was afraid to disturb him when he was in his office. Even Mamma would moan, "Oh dear, oh dear, I have to go tell the Captain," as if she had to walk through fire or over a bed of coals. As a child I was terrified of going in the office when he was there. I wouldn't so much as cross in front of the doorway if I could avoid it.

And when he was gone and I could go in there to look at his books and things, it was as if I had entered some sacred room, that part of a church where precious religious icons were stored. I would tiptoe over the floor and pull out the books as softly and as quietly as I could, always gazing at the desk to be sure Papa hadn't suddenly materialized out of thin air. As I grew older, my confidence grew and I didn't look upon the office with as much trepidation, but I never stopped being afraid of crossing Papa and making him angry.

And so when he entered my room, his face brooding, his eyes dark, I felt my heart stop and then begin to pound. He straightened up, his hands behind his back and fixed his gaze on me for a long moment without speaking. His eyes seemed to sizzle as they blazed down at me. I twisted my fingers around each other and waited anxiously.

"Stand up," he suddenly commanded.

"What, Papa?" Panic seized me in a tight grip and for a moment I couldn't move.

"Stand up," he repeated. "I want to take a good look at you, a new look at you," he said, nodding. "Yes. Stand up."

I did so, straightening my skirt.

"Doesn't that teacher teach you about good posture?" he snapped. "Don't she make you walk around with a book on your head?"

"No, Papa."

"Humph," he said, and approached me. He gripped my shoulders between his strong fingers and thumb and pressed so hard, it hurt. "Pull your shoulders back, Lillian, or you'll end up walking and looking like Emily," he added, which surprised me. He never criticized her in my presence before. "Yes, that's better," he said. His eyes scanned me critically, his gaze centering on my budding bosom. He nodded.

"You have grown a few years' worth overnight," he remarked. "I've been so busy lately, I haven't had time to pay attention to what's going on right beneath my feet." He pulled himself into a straight position again. "Your Mamma's told you about the birds and the bees, I assume?"

"Birds and the bees, Papa?" I thought a moment and shook my head. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I don't mean the birds and the bees exactly, Lillian. That's just an expression. I mean about what goes on between a man and a woman. You're apparently a woman already; you should know something."

"She told me how babies are made," I said.

"Uh-huh. And that's it?"

"She told me about some women in her books and . . ."

"Oh, her damn books!" he cried. He pointed his thick right forefinger at me. "That will get you into trouble faster than anything else," he warned.

"What will, Papa?"

"Those stupid stories." He straightened up again. "Emily's come in to see me about your behavior," he said. "And no wonder, if you've been reading your mother's books."

"I didn't do anything bad, Papa. Honest, I . . ." He put up his hand.

"I want the truth and I want it fast. Did you come running out of the forest like Emily says?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Did the Thompson boy come running out after you a moment later, huffing and puffing like some dogs after a bitch in heat?"

"He wasn't running after me, exactly, Papa. We . . ."

"Were you buttoning your blouse when you came out of the forest?" he demanded.

"Buttoning my blouse? Oh no, Papa. Emily's lying if she said that," I protested.

"Unbutton your blouse," he ordered.

"What, Papa?"

"You heard me, unbutton your blouse. Go on."

I did so quickly. He stepped closer and looked down at me, his gaze falling on the tops of my breasts. When he was this close to me, I couldn't help but smell his bourbon and mint. It was stronger than ever.

"Did you let this boy put his hand in there?" he asked, nodding toward my exposed bosom. For a moment, I couldn't respond. I blushed so fast and so hard, I thought I would faint at his feet. It was as if Papa had somehow been able to eavesdrop on my fantasies.

"No, Papa."

"Close your eyes," he ordered. I did so. A moment later, I felt his fingers on my chest. They were so hot to the touch, I thought they would burn my skin. "Keep your eyes closed," he demanded when I opened them. I closed them again and he moved his fingers down until I felt them reach the top of my bosom and turn into my small but distinct cleavage as if he was measuring the rise in my breasts. There, they rested for a moment and then he pulled them back. I opened my eyes.

"Was that what he did to you?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"No, Papa," I said, my lips and my chin trembling.

"All right," he said, and cleared his throat. "Now button your blouse as quickly as you can. Go on." He stood back and folded his arms across his chest and watched.

I buttoned my blouse as fast as I could, but my fingers fumbled terribly with the buttons.

"Uh-huh," he said like a detective. "That's the way Emily claims she saw you fumbling when you came running out."

"She's lying, Papa!"

"Now, you listen here," he said. "Your Mamma doesn't know about this yet because Emily came straight to me. We're lucky it was just Emily and not a bunch of other folks who saw you come out of the woods, alone with a boy, buttoning up your blouse."

"But Papa . . ."

He held up his hand.

"I know what it's like when a healthy young girl blooms into womanhood overnight. All you have to do is watch some of our farm animals in heat and you understand the fire in the blood," Papa said. "I don't want to hear no more stories about you and boys crawling around in the dark of the forest or in some secret places to do ungodly things, do you understand, Lillian? Do you?" he pursued.

"Yes, Papa," I said, my head lowered. Emily had spoken and her words were as good as Gospel around here, I thought sadly, especially in Papa's eyes.

"Good. Now your Mamma don't know about any of this and don't have to be bothered about it, so don't say anything about my visit here today, understand?"

"Yes, Papa."

"I'll be watching you more carefully now, Lillian, looking after you more. I just didn't realize how fast you were growing." He stepped closer to me again and put his hand on my hair so gently I had to look up surprised. "You're going to be beautiful and I don't want no sex-crazy young boy spoiling you, hear?"

I nodded, too shocked to speak. He thought a moment and then nodded at his own thoughts.

"Yes," he said, "I can see where have to take more of a role in your upbringing. Georgia, she's lost to those romantic stories of hers, stories that have got nothing to do with reality. One day soon, you and I will sit down and have a grown-up discussion about what goes on between men and women and what you've got to watch out for when it comes to young men." He almost smiled, his eyes twinkling with a brightness that made him look younger for a moment. "I should know. I was a young man once."

The near smile left his face quickly.

"But until then, you walk the straight and narrow, Lillian. Hear?"

"Yes, Papa."

"No more side trips with the Thompson boy or any other boy for that matter. Any boy wants to court you right and proper, he comes to see me first. Make that clear to each and every one of them and you won't get into any trouble, Lillian,"

"I didn't do anything bad, Papa," I said.

"Maybe not, but if it looks bad, it is bad. That's the way things are and you had better remember it," he said. "Why, in my time if a young woman took a walk into the forest with a man and was unchaperoned, the man had to marry her or she'd be considered spoiled."

I stared at him a moment. Why was the woman the only one thought spoiled? Why not the man, too? Why was it men could risk such things, but women couldn't? I wondered. And what about the time I had come upon Papa and Darlene Scott during one of our grand barbecues. The memory was still quite vivid, but I dared not mention it even though that remained in my mind as something that didn't just look bad, but was bad.

"All right," Papa said, "remember, not a word of this to your mother. It will remain a buried secret between you and me."

"And Emily," I reminded him bitterly.

"Emily does whatever I tell her to do and always will," he declared. Then he turned around and went to the door. He looked back at me once, his stern face slipping into a quick smile. Just as quickly, he got hold of himself and scowled before leaving me alone to think about the strange thing that had just happened between us. I couldn't wait to go down to tell Eugenia.

Eugenia wasn't having a good, day. Lately, she was relying more and more on her breathing machines and taking more medicine. Her afternoon naps stretched longer and longer until sometimes it seemed like she was asleep more than she was awake. She looked even paler to me and much skinnier. Even the slightest degenerations in her health frightened me, so whenever I saw her this way, my heart would thump very hard and I could barely swallow. I entered her room and found she was lying in bed, her head looking smaller and smaller against her big, fluffy white pillow. It was as if she was sinking into the mattress, shriveling up before my eyes until soon she would disappear altogether. Despite her obvious discomfort and fatigue, her eyes lit up the moment I entered.

"Hi, Lillian."

She struggled to get her elbows under her torso and lift herself into a sitting position. I ran to her side and helped her. Then I fluffed up her pillow and made her as comfortable as I could. She asked for some water and sipped at it a bit.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, handing me the glass. "How was school today?"

"It was fine. What's the matter? Don't you feel well today?" I asked. I sat on her bed and held her small hand, a hand so small and soft it felt like it was made of air when it was in my palm.

"I'm all right," she said quickly. "Tell me about school. Did you do anything new?"

I told her about our math and history lessons quickly and about Robert Martin dipping Erna Elliot's pigtail in the inkwell.

"When she stood up, the ink dripped down the back of her dress. Miss Walker was furious. She took Robert out and whacked him so hard with the yard-stick, we heard him wailing through the walls. He won't sit down for a week of Sundays," I said, and Eugenia laughed. But her laugh turned into a terrible cough that seized her so firmly, I thought she would shatter. I held her and patted her back gently until the coughing stopped. Her face was red and she looked like she couldn't breathe.

"I'll get Mamma," I cried, and started to stand, but she grabbed my hand with surprising strength and shook her head.

"It's all right," she said in a whisper. "It happens often. It'll be all right."

I bit down on my lip and swallowed my tears and then sat beside her again.

"Where were you?" she asked. "Why did it take you so long to come here?"