Darkest Hour Read online

  She turned back to me.

  "You be nice to the new help and watch over your Mamma best you can and just tend to your own business. You growing into a beautiful young lady. It's just a matter of time now before some handsome gentleman comes calling and sweeping you off, and when that happens, you remember old Louella, hear? Send me a note and tell me. Promise?"

  "Of course, Louella. I'll write you often. I'll write you so much, you'll get tired of it."

  She laughed. She hugged and kissed me and then she took one more look at The Meadows before letting Henry help her into the carriage. It was only then that I realized Emily hadn't even bothered to come down to say good-bye to her, though she, just like me, had known her all her life.

  "Ready?" Henry asked her. She nodded and he tapped the horses. The carriage started forward, down the long avenue of cedars. Louella looked back and waved with her handkerchief. I waved back, but my heart felt so hollow and my feet so numb, I thought I might faint with sorrow. I stood there and watched until the wagon was out of sight and then I turned and slowly walked back up the stairs to enter the house that had become a lot more empty, a lot more lonely, a lot less home.

  PART TWO

  9

  GOOD NIGHT, SWEET PRINCE

  Charles Slope and his wife Vera, the woman who Papa hired to replace Louella, were pleasant enough people, and their infant son Luther was sweet, but I couldn't help the emptiness I felt in my heart. No one could ever replace Louella. Vera was an excellent cook, however, and although she made things differently, they always tasted good; and Charles was certainly a hard worker who gave Henry the relief and assistance he needed at his age.

  Vera was a tall woman in her late twenties with dark brown hair in a chignon so tight it looked painted on. I never saw a strand out of place. Her eyes were soft light brown and she had a somewhat dark complexion. She had a small bosom with a narrow waist and hips. Although she was long-legged, she walked and moved about gracefully, never lumbering or slouching like Emily and other tall young women I had seen.

  Vera ran the kitchen efficiently, which, in what were becoming increasingly hard economic times, Papa appreciated. Nothing was wasted. Leftovers were turned into stews and salads to the point that the hound dogs felt deprived and gazed up with disappointment when the scraps were thrown to them. Vera had worked in a rooming house before and was accustomed to making do with much less. She was a quiet woman, much quieter than Louella. Whenever I walked past the kitchen, I never heard Vera singing or humming, and she was rather closed-mouth about her past, rarely volunteering any new information about her youth. Papa's formal ways didn't seem to scare her and I could see the pleasure in his eyes when she referred to him as Sir or Captain Booth.

  Naturally, I was interested in how she would react to Emily and how Emily would treat her. Although Vera never contradicted Emily or disobeyed one of her orders, she did have a way of gazing at her sharply that told me she didn't like her, but knew enough to keep her feelings well hidden beneath her Yes ma'ams and No ma'ams. She never questioned or complained, and quickly learned the pecking order.

  All of Vera's gentleness was reserved for her infant son Luther. She was a good mother who always managed to tend to his needs and keep him clean, well fed and occupied, despite her chores in the kitchen and her added burden of seeing after Mamma from time to time. Papa must have prepared her for Mamma's erratic, strange behavior, for she didn't appear surprised the first time Mamma was too tired or too confused to come to the dinner table. She prepared Mamma's tray and brought it to her without comment or question. Actually, I was very pleased with the manner in which Vera looked after Mamma's needs, always checking to be sure Mamma was up and around in the morning, helping her to dress herself or even to wash herself. It wasn't long before she got Mamma to permit her to brush Mamma's hair the way Louella often did.

  Mamma was very pleased with having an infant in the house. Although Vera was careful not to permit Luther to bother Papa, she managed to have Mamma see him and talk to him and even play with him almost every day. That, more than anything, seemed to draw Mamma out of her doldrums and despondency, although she would invariably retreat to her strange and melancholy ways.

  Luther was a curious child who would easily get himself tangled in clothes piled in the wash basket or who would crawl without fear under furniture and behind cabinets to explore, if he was not watched. He was large and strong for his age and had dark brown hair and pecan-colored eyes. He was already a tough little boy, who rarely cried, even when he fell and bumped himself or put his fingers too close to something hot or something sharp. Instead, he looked angry or disappointed and went off to find something else of interest. He resembled his father more than his mother and had the same short hands with stubby fingers that Charles had.

  Charles Slope was a soft-spoken man in his early thirties, who had experience with automobiles and engines, which was something that pleased Papa since he had recently bought a Ford—one of the few automobiles in this part of the country. Charles's mechanical knowledge seemed limitless. Henry told me there wasn't a thing on the plantation Charles couldn't repair. He was particularly brilliant when it came to improvising parts, which meant older machines and tools could be kept useful and Papa could postpone any new investments.

  Economic troubles were growing, not only for us but for our neighboring farms as well. Every time Papa returned from one of his trips, he declared the need to find new economies in the house and on the farm. He started to let some of our farm laborers go and then began cutting back on our house servants, which at first meant that Tottie and Vera had to do extra work around our house. Papa then decided to shut down large sections of the plantation, which I didn't mind, but the day he decided to let Henry go, my heart sank.

  I had returned from school and was just starting upstairs when I heard some whimpering from the rear of the house and found Tottie sitting in a corner by the window in the library. She had a feather duster in her hand, but she wasn't doing any work. She was all crunched up in the chair and just staring out the window.

  "What is it, Tottie?" I asked. Hard times were raining down around us so fast, I didn't know what to expect.

  "Henry's been sent off," she said. "He's packing his things and going."

  "Sent off? Sent off to where?"

  "Off the plantation, Miss Lillian. Your papa, he says Henry's too old to be of any value now. He should go live with relatives, but Henry, he ain't got no relatives alive, none to speak of, that is."

  "Henry can't go!" I cried. "He's been here almost all his life. He's supposed to stay here until he dies. He always expected he would."

  Tottie shook her head.

  "He'll be gone before night falls, Miss Lillian," she declared as solemnly as the Voice of Doom. She sniffed and then stood up and began to dust again. "Ain't nothing like it was," she muttered. "Those dark clouds just keep rolling on in."

  I turned, threw my books on the table in the hallway, and ran out of the house. I got to Henry's quarters as quickly as I could and knocked on his door.

  "Why hello there, Miss Lillian," Henry said, beaming a wide smile as if nothing at all was wrong. I looked past him and saw he had tied up his clothes in a bundle and had filled an old and tattered brown leather suitcase with everything else he owned. He had rope where the suitcase's straps used to be.

  "Tottie just told me what Papa has done, Henry. You can't go. I'm going to beg him to let you stay," I moaned. My eyes were filling with tears so quickly, I thought my face would be drenched.

  "Oh no, Miss Lillian. You can't do that. Times are hard here and the Captain, he ain't got much choice," Henry said, but I could see the pain in his face. He loved The Meadows as much as Papa did. Even more, I thought, for Henry's sweat and blood was in this plantation.

  "Who'll take care of us and provide our food and . . ."

  "Oh, Mr. Slope will do just fine when it comes to those chores, Miss Lillian. Don't fret none."

  "I'm not worried a
bout ourselves, Henry. I don't want anyone else doing those things. You can't go. First, Louella retires and now you are sent away. How can Papa fire you? You're as much a part of The Meadows as . . . as he is. I won't let him send you away. I won't. Don't pack another thing!" I cried, and ran toward the house before Henry could change my mind.

  Papa was in his office, behind his desk, bent over his papers. Beside him was a glass of bourbon. When I entered, he didn't look up until I was practically at his desk.

  "What is it now, Lillian?" he demanded as if I were pulling on his coattails with requests and questions all day. He sat up and tugged on the ends of his mustache, his dark eyes scanning me critically. "I don't want to hear another tale about your mother, if that's it."

  "No, Papa. I. . ."

  "Well then, what is it? You can see I'm tormenting over these damn bills."

  "It's about Henry, Papa. We can't let him go, we just can't. Henry loves The Meadows. He belongs here forever," I pleaded.

  "Forever," Papa spat as if I had spoken a curse word. He gazed out the window for a moment and then he sat forward. "This here plantation is still a working farm, a money-making enterprise, a business. Do you know what that means, Lillian? That means you put costs and expenses on one side and profits on the other, see," he said, tapping on his papers with his long right forefinger. "And then you subtract the profits by the costs and expenses periodically and see what you have and what you don't and we don't have a quarter of what we had a year ago this time. Not a quarter!" he cried, his eyes wide and raging at me as if it was my fault.

  "But Papa, Henry . . ."

  "Henry's an employee, just like anyone else, and just like anyone else, he's got to pull his load or go. The fact is," Papa said in a calmer tone, "Henry is way past his prime, way past the age when he should be retired and sitting on a back porch someplace smoking a corncob pipe and remembering his youth," Papa said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "I kept him on as long as I could, but even his small wages contribute to the bottom line and I can't afford to waste a penny these days."

  "But Henry does his work, Papa. He always did."

  "I got a new, young man to do all that work and he costs me plenty, but he's worth it. Now it would be business-stupid to keep Henry on just to tag along and stand behind Charles whenever he's doing something, wouldn't it? You're a smart enough girl to see that, Lillian. And besides, nothing makes a man want to just lay down and die as much as knowing he's worthless, and that's what Henry's got to face every day as long as he's here.

  "So," he said, sitting back, contented with his logic, "in a way I'm doing him a big favor by letting him go." "But where will he go, Papa?"

  "Oh, he's got a nephew lives in Richmond," Papa said.

  "Henry won't like living in a city," I muttered.

  "Lillian, I can't worry about that now, can I? The Meadows, that's what I got to worry about and that's what you should be worrying about too. Now go on, get out of here and do whatever it is you do this time of day," he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and then bending over his papers again. I stood there for a moment and then left slowly.

  Although it was bright and sunny outside, it looked gray and dismal when I stepped out of the house and walked toward Henry's quarters. He was finished packing and was saying good-bye to the laborers who were still with us. I watched and waited. Then Henry threw his sack over his shoulder and grasped the improvised handle of his old suitcase and started down the drive toward me. He stopped and put his suitcase down.

  "Well now, Miss Lillian," he said, looking around. "It's a fine afternoon for a long walk, ain't it?"

  "Henry," I sobbed. "I'm sorry. I couldn't change Papa's mind."

  "I don't want you to fret none, Miss Lillian. Old Henry will be fine."

  "I don't want you to leave, Henry," I moaned.

  "Well now, Miss Lillian, I don't think I'm leaving. I don't think I could leave The Meadows behind. I carry it here," he said, pressing his hand over his heart, "and here," he said, pointing to his temple. "All my memories is of The Meadows, my times here. Most of the folks I knew are gone. Hopefully to a better world," he added. "Sometimes," he said, nod-ding, "it's harder to be the one who lingers.

  "But," he said, smiling, "I'm glad I lingered long enough to see you grown. You're a fine young woman, Miss Lillian. You're gonna make some gentleman a fine wife and have your own plantation someday, or something just as big and proper."

  "If I do, Henry, will you come live on my place?" I asked, wiping away my tears.

  "Absolutely, Miss Lillian. You won't have to ask old Henry twice. Well now," he said, holding out his hand. "You take good care of yourself and from time to time, think of old Henry."

  I looked at his hand and then I stepped forward and hugged him. It took him by surprise and he just stood there for a moment while I clung to him, clung to what was good and loving at The Meadows, clung to the memories of my youth, clung to warm summer days and nights, to the sound of a harmonica in the night, to the words of wisdom Henry had spun around me, to the vision of him rushing over to help me with Eugenia, or the vision of him sitting beside me in the carriage when he would take me to school. I clung to the songs and the words and the smiles and the hope.

  "I've got to go, Miss Lillian," he whispered through a voice that cracked with emotion. His eyes shone brilliantly with unspent tears. He picked up his tattered suitcase and continued down the drive. I ran along.

  "Will you write to me, Henry? And let me know where you are?"

  "Oh sure, Miss Lillian. I'll scribble a note or two."

  "Papa should have had Charles drive you someplace," I cried, still keeping up with him.

  "No, Charles got his chores. I ain't no stranger to long walks, Miss Lillian. When I was a boy, I thought nothing of walking from one horizon to the other."

  "You're not a boy anymore, Henry."

  "No ma'am." He pulled his shoulders up the best he could and increased his stride, each long step taking him farther and farther away from me.

  "Good-bye, Henry," I cried when I stopped running alongside him. For a few moments, he just walked and then, at the end of the driveway, he turned. For one last time, I saw Henry's bright smile. Maybe it was magic; maybe it was my desperate imagination at work, but he looked younger to me; he looked like he hadn't aged a day since the time he carried me on his shoulders, singing and laughing. In my mind his voice was as much a part of The Meadows as the songs of the birds.

  A moment later he made the turn at the end of the drive and was gone. I lowered my head and with a heart so heavy it made my steps ponderous, I headed toward the house. When I looked up, I saw that a long, heavy cloud had slipped over the sun and dropped a veil of gray over the great building, making all the windows look dark and empty, all except one window, the window of Emily's room. In it she stood gazing down at me, her long white face casting a look of displeasure. Perhaps she had seen me hugging Henry, I thought. She was sure to distort my expression of love and make it seem dirty and sinful. I glared up at her defiantly. She smiled her cold, wry smile, lifted her hands which held her Bible and turned away to be swallowed up in the darkness of her room.

  Life went on at The Meadows, at times smooth and at times bumpy. Mamma had her good days and her bad, and I would have to remember that what I told her one day she could easily forget the next. In her Swiss-cheese memory, events of her youth were often confused with events of the present. She appeared more comfortable with the older memories and clung to them tenaciously, choosing to selectively remember her good times as a little girl growing up on her own family plantation more than anything else.

  She began to read again, but often reread the same pages and the same book. The most painful thing for me was to hear her talk about Eugenia or refer to my little sister as if she were still alive in her room. She was always going to "bring Eugenia this" or "tell Eugenia that." I didn't have the heart to remind her that Eugenia had passed away, but Emily never hesitated. She, like Papa, had li
ttle tolerance for Mamma's lapses of memory and daydreaming. I tried to get her to have more compassion, but she disagreed.

  "If we feed the stupidity," she said, choosing Papa's word, "it will only continue."

  "It's not stupidity. The memory is just too painful for Mamma to bear," I explained. "In time . . ."

  "In time she will get worse," Emily declared with her superior, prophetic tone. "Unless we bring her to her senses. Pampering her won't help."

  I choked back my words and left her. As Henry might say, I thought, it would be easier to convince a fly he was a bee and have him make honey than change Emily's way of thinking. The only one who understood my sorrow and expressed any sympathy was Niles. He would listen to my tales of woe with sympathetic eyes and nod, his heart breaking for me and for Mamma.

  Niles had grown tall and lean. When he was only thirteen, he began shaving. His beard was coming in thick and dark. Now that he was older, he had his regular chores on his family's farm. Just like us, the Thompsons were having a hard time meeting their financial obligations, and just like us, they, too, had to let go of some of their servants. Niles filled in and was soon doing a grown man's work. He was proud of it and it did change him, harden him, make him more mature.

  But we didn't stop going to our magic pond or believing in the fantasy. From time to time, we would sneak off together and take a walk that brought us to the pond. At first it was painful to return to the place where we had brought Eugenia and where wishes had been made, but it felt good to have something that was secretly ours. We kissed and petted and revealed more and more of our treasured thoughts, thoughts ordinarily kept under lock and key in the safe of our hearts.

  Niles was the first to say he dreamt of our marriage, and once he admitted to such a wish, I confessed to having the same dream. Eventually, he would inherit his father's farm and we would live on it and raise our family. I would always be close to Mamma and after we had gotten started, I would immediately contact Henry and bring him back. At least he would be near The Meadows.