The Gilda Stories Page 15

  “You remember that first time you come by here to pay your respects? Why, I was so shy I was hardly able to open the door, much less look you in the eye. I remember how that sunset made your hat look like a halo, and I was so flustered I didn’t know what you’d think of me.” Aurelia laughed with embarrassment.

  “I thought only that I’d caught you by surprise.”

  “I do say, you caught me by surprise. I can’t remember any time I’ve been more surprised. Except when the Reverend asked for my hand. Even then I could tell my folks expected it, so it wasn’t much of one.” She laughed nervously, remembering how narrow her choices had seemed then, how broad they were now that she knew Gilda. “You looked so overpowering I wasn’t certain if I should be afraid or relieved.”

  “You hid your indecision well,” Gilda said. “I thought you were simply measuring me to decide if I were suitable enough to use the good china.” They laughed together as they had done on many occasions since that first time.

  “It doesn’t feel like almost three years have passed. If you had seen me in the Reverend Hayne’s office yesterday, you wouldn’t have recognized me. I just kind of made my back go stiff like I was pushing a stuck drawer and kept talking, no matter what he said. When I asked about using the church at night for class, he just sputtered around his desk. Then when I said I wanted another night for offering social services, you know, giving out food and all, he stoppered up like a bottle. Just a year ago, even a month ago, I don’t know if I’d ever have been able to be so bold. And I can tell you that if we’d had to depend on some of the other ladies, we’d be meeting in your barn.”

  They both laughed loudly since Gilda’s unused barn was the least amenable facility in the vicinity.

  “I know he kept thinking to himself: Mercy be, this could have been my wife! So, between guilt and relief he said yes—maybe!”

  A glow of pride spread across Aurelia’s face. And, indeed, she had grown a great deal in the years since they became friends. The evenings they spent together had changed: Gilda was no longer there simply to provide entertainment, to draw her out. They were accustomed to each other’s tastes in discussion. Gilda came to know this new Aurelia quite well and was not surprised at her success. Still, the afternoon’s discussion with John Freeman stayed with her. Beside it was the gnawing restlessness she continued to push into the back of her thoughts.

  “And just what are you going to do now that he’s said yes—maybe?” Gilda asked.

  She didn’t touch the teacup Aurelia placed before her. Instead she watched Aurelia put away the knives, bowls, and jars from her afternoon of canning. Once the vegetables Gilda had brought were stored in the back pantry, Aurelia tossed her apron onto a pile of stained towels.

  “What is it, Gilda? You’re not saying something,” Aurelia accused with an easy familiarity. Then added, “Let’s sit in the parlor. I, unlike some of us, have had enough of the kitchen today.”

  She gave Gilda a tart smile and did not wait for her to follow into the next room. She removed a bottle of sherry along with two glasses from the sideboard.

  “Is this going to be unpleasant?” she asked as she poured from the crystal decanter.

  “I think you have to make careful plans, Aurelia, that’s all. This isn’t something you should take on alone.”

  “I’m not alone. Edna Bright is planning to help with the lessons, and if her sister is willing to work on dispensing food and you’re going to give us a share of your yield, I’d say that’s a fairly strong beginning.” Aurelia did not look in Gilda’s direction but sipped from the tiny glass and paced before the low settee.

  “Of course I’m going to contribute. I’ve always got much more than I can ever use, and that’s true for some others as well, like John Freeman. I know he wants to make donations. You’d do well to involve him; he’d be quite a help.” Gilda listened to the voice as if it were not her own.

  “Why? I’ve got you.”

  Gilda’s heart pounded loudly in her chest as the room fell silent around them. She was now certain she must make plans to leave Missouri but had not expected the decision to be presented to her so soon. Despite the passing years she still felt unsure of how to know when one she cared for might be suited to this life, or when she might simply be thinking of her own desire and not the needs of others. The misery she’d seen in Samuel’s eyes traveled with her.

  “But I might not always be here, Aurelia.” The words did not fill the silence, only deepened it. “I’ve told you, sometime in the future I may need to go back east. My family could call for me at any time.”

  Gilda’s lie hung low in the air. Inside she cringed at the word family. The thought of leaving Aurelia for family when she still had not found Bird made her tremble. She stared in Aurelia’s direction avoiding her eyes; how easily she could make her one of them. The knowledge landed heavily on Gilda’s chest, almost cutting her breath from her. Aurelia would be acquiescent, eager, letting Gilda draw the blood and return it in the ritual of sharing that would bind them together forever. The pulsing of Aurelia’s blood at her temple mesmerized Gilda. Here could begin a new family, she thought. Hunger and desire almost pulled Gilda across the parlor. Instead she stood and excused herself, then snatched her cloak from its hook by the door. Aurelia followed her, a look of alarm spreading across her face. Gilda stilled her before she could speak.

  “I have to go. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “You’ll come for church?”

  “No. I must be in St. Louis in the morning.”

  “St. Louis!” Aurelia was appalled to hear herself almost shouting. “You can’t start out at this hour. It’s too dangerous!” She clutched Gilda’s sleeve. “This is foolish—” She tried to continue but couldn’t.

  Gilda held her gaze, calming her, suggesting she read then go to sleep early.

  “I’ll be here before evening supper. We’ll have our ride then,” Gilda said without speaking. She loosed Aurelia’s hand from her arm and latched the door behind her as she left.

  Gilda had reached her farm and changed her clothes before Aurelia realized she was sitting in the armchair she thought of as Gilda’s. The amber glow of the reading lamp was comforting, and soon Aurelia was ready to retire.

  Once back on the road Gilda felt her trembling begin to lessen. She looked for the key to her hesitation as her feet carried her east. She’d never changed anyone but was certain she knew the process: exchange of blood, two times taken, at least once given. She knew the method and the timing but she drew back from the idea. Why? The restlessness Gilda felt would surely be quieted if Aurelia joined with her. But Aurelia’s life was now full of many new plans and people. She had begun to make a real place for herself among people she cared for. To claim this life now would be thievery. To pull Aurelia away from the ties she’d made, the commitment she felt, and to ask her to live apart from these things would be cheating her. The idea that Aurelia might one day look at her with the same misery she had seen in Samuel’s eyes wrenched her heart.

  A cracking sound behind her brought Gilda’s attention back to the road. She stood frozen for a moment, listening warily, not anxious to repeat the events of the recent past. She recognized the sound as a skittering rabbit and began to move briskly again. By the time she was outside of St. Louis she no longer thought of Aurelia but only of the hunger she had aroused, and of escape. She skirted the city, then pulled her hat down further as she started for its center. She was inconspicuous in the Saturday evening crowds.

  Gilda walked among the people, listening to their heartbeats, letting the scent of their blood and perfumes drift past her. She turned into an alley behind a house she recognized. In the shadows of a doorway she listened to the sound of voices wafting down from the windows above. High-pitched laughter mixed with clinking glassware and soft entreaties. They made her ache for Woodard’s, a place that no longer existed. She longed for the girls who years since had become old women, who most probably lay at their final rest by now.
The music floated eagerly through the back door of the building which was ajar only wide enough to let one man pass through: an ejected customer stumbling homeward. Gilda stared at the building, absorbing the familiar sounds and smells, and recognized her restlessness. It was unfinished. She’d left Woodard’s without knowing what her life with Bird might be, just as Bird had left her unable to say what they were to each other. Gilda wanted to reach out to Bird, but even more she needed to settle inside herself. Aurelia could not help her do that. Aurelia would be fulfilled in Rosebud, not on unknown roads delving into a past she did not understand. It was not a journey she needed, but one that Gilda did.

  The sounds unfurled like a tapestry above her head; her ears picked through the colors and pitch. The sound of the stride piano was a velvet background around which scampered the unmistakable squeal of a cornet. Gilda turned sharply toward the glorious sound, one she had not heard for over a decade. In New Orleans this cornet had entranced her. She wondered if this was a recording, but it was not. She remembered the player who refused to become immortalized by the recording process, choosing instead to carry his own legend.

  Gilda’s hunger abated as the piercing notes wrapped themselves around her body. It was in moments like these that oneness with the others returned. The web of music bound them through the ages, through the dark, until there was but a single future for them.

  Gilda leaned into the music, letting it wash over her like a spray of water. Her hunger was not forgotten. For that moment, however, it was simply fed by the sound of the horn. The thinning blood inside her moved languidly, seduced by the tide of sound. Its abrupt ending left a piano tinkling randomly in the silence, then applause. They cheered in rhythm with the music, setting up a ritualistic pulse. Beneath it all Gilda heard a quiet sob so close that, for a moment, she thought she had made the sound herself. Above her, to the left at the corner of the building, a slightly open window was dark with a sadness that seeped out from under the curtains.

  Gilda felt disoriented. Then her body was released from its stupor and spoke to her of its need. Her moment of euphoria was gone, and the fire of hunger ran through her veins. The muffled sobs reached not just her ears now, but all of her senses. A woman lay immobile, sunk deeply into her pillow. The smell of men’s sex clung to her linen.

  In the girl’s head was a jumble of thoughts awash in resignation. Gilda rummaged through them, picking at each: the lost child, the need for companionship, shame, uncertainty about her status in this house. She felt young to Gilda, or at least young in knowledge.

  There was little protection around her, simply guileless perseverance. But most amazing was that the woman was devoid of dreams. She had no fantasy or embellished aspirations on which to affix her daily life: today barely existed. She was lost in isolation. Gilda pushed into the room with her own thoughts infinitely more directed than those of the young woman. She massaged her spirit, loosened the bonds that wound tightly around the woman’s chest to help her breathe easier, then dropped a veil of sleep over her.

  Gilda entered the back door of the establishment and heard the patrons and business girls in the front parlor still praising the piano player and cornetist. She slipped stealthily into the deserted kitchen and up the back stairway. She followed her line of control, holding the young woman in sleep, and passed the closed doors of the corridor. Behind some of them she heard the grunts of impending and expended passion. Behind one she heard silence–no thoughts or dreams. She entered the darkened room and was stunned by the close air of defeat. The mirror was smudged, clothes were strewn carelessly, and the coverlet betrayed days of filth. It was a room in which no one really lived, not even the one who slept here.

  The girl lay on her back, a mass of auburn curls plastered to her damp head. Her face was set in grimness, her fists clenched by her side as if prepared to do battle with a world she cared little for. Gilda peered into the creamy white features, wondering where along the short path this one had traveled she’d lost her ability to dream.

  Even in the fearful hours of dawn, before Gilda could be certain there would be another night of life, dreams crept into her rest to stimulate her mind and heart. Gilda felt such sorrow at this diminished capacity for life, she had to restrain the impulse to shake her awake and preach to her of the need for dreams. Instead she held her in the sleep and pulled her into her arms. A small incision at the side of the neck. Blood seeping out slowly. It reminded her of the wounds she and her sisters suffered on their tiny hands as they’d wrenched the cotton from its stiff branches. Lines of blood covered them until the flesh was hardened by experience.

  Gilda put her lips to the trickle of blood and turned it into a tide washing through her, making her heart pump faster. Her insistent suckling created a new pulse and filled her with new life. In return she offered dreams. She held the girl’s body and mind tightly, letting the desire for future life flow through them both, a promising reverie of freedom and challenge. The woman absorbed Gilda’s desire for family, for union with others like herself, for new experience. Through these she perceived a capacity for endless life and an open door of possibility.

  As the blood left her body the woman’s psyche responded with a moment of terror, which Gilda used to further suffuse her dreams with urgency. She wrapped the fear around the edge of the dream, making it all the more compelling. Gilda did not stop taking the blood until she felt parts of her dream become the girl’s own. The young woman began to cling to life and experience the urge to project into a future. Her mind filled with thoughts of the other women who lived and worked in the house—the smiles she had not acknowledged, the endearments and angry words yet to be shared.

  Gilda pulled back, comfortable with rooting a dream inside this girl. She loosened her hold so that the young woman’s breathing returned to normal, then backed away from the bed, looking down at the face full of expectation. The woman’s fists were relaxed; she’d reached one hand up to cover her own small breast, where it rested as if giving assurance to a lover. The woman sighed, and Gilda slid the window open wider, slipped through, and silently dropped the two stories to the back alley. The sounds of Saturday nightlife continued to reverberate as she walked out to the street. She maintained a slow pace moving south then west to the edge of the city, enjoying the evening air and the memory of the girl’s soft, pale skin. Her resurgent dreams cast a new glow on Gilda’s life: in giving dreams she had recaptured her own.

  Gilda gazed up at the bright, thinning moon and sniffed the clear air. The smell of open land was inviting as she left the confines of the city. It was the dreams Aurelia possessed that Gilda could not bare to disturb—her hopes for a life in the town she’d known since childhood, of the work she would do for others. These were the ties that held Aurelia to the earth, not the release from widowhood or open-ended adventure that Gilda represented. As much as she longed to have Aurelia at her side, she could never draw her away from her dreams.

  Gilda thought about one of the evenings she sat with Sorel at his fireside. In talking of Eleanor and the mistaken decision he’d made, Sorel quoted Lao-Tsu: The bright path seems dim; going forward seems like retreat; the easy way seems hard.… It was Sorel’s self-interested fear of going on without Eleanor that obscured what a bad choice it would be to bring her into their life. To live without Aurelia was the best that Gilda could do for both of them.

  The next evening, standing on Aurelia’s porch, she briefly remembered the woman with whom she’d exchanged in St. Louis the night before. The encounter had opened up new roads for her. She was anxious to move forward, certain she would find Bird soon and be able to share with her this fresh understanding of their life. When Aurelia answered her knock, Gilda tried to apologize with her eyes for leaving the night before, but Aurelia was wary.

  “Let’s go for our ride before the evening cools,” Gilda said. She took Aurelia’s hand and smiled into her clouded face. Once they were in the car Aurelia was almost smiling too. The day before felt remote. Gilda drove sl
owly back through town and out onto the road leading west. When they reached the town limit she increased the car’s speed. Soon they were both laughing out loud into the dust that rose from the grit of the road. Gilda turned off the engine at the edge of a rise overhanging a narrow valley, and they left the car to gaze at the green sloping down under the red roof of the setting sun. Gilda held Aurelia’s hand again, sensing a need in both of them to quiet the uncertainty.

  “What is it that makes you different from the others?” Aurelia asked in a fervid, youthful voice. Her dark face was placid, but her eyes looked pained and tentative. Gilda drew back from the shadow and turned Aurelia to face her.

  Gilda’s touch lightened on Aurelia’s shoulders, but she did not want to take her hands away. Instead she smoothed the woolen coat where it fell over Aurelia’s full breasts. She then traced the thick braid arcing Aurelia’s face.

  “Perhaps it’s that I love no other… no other mortal in this world but you. That gives me a strength and clarity no one else can know.”

  “Then you won’t leave me?”

  Gilda pulled Aurelia into her arms. She felt the tremble of tears in the young woman’s lips pressed tight against her own cloak. It had been so many years since she had simply held anyone. Aurelia fit into the bend of her arm, under the curve of her breast, as if their bodies were cut from a pattern. Gilda’s embrace tightened as she fought to find the clarity she’d just spoken of, the clarity she knew earlier.

  “I’ll go away as I said I must, but I’ll never truly leave you. Your life is here, mine is not.”

  “How can you be so certain of that? We’ve been happy!” Aurelia stumbled at the sound of the words she’d said to herself so often, hating the reality of them in the air.

  “You’ve needed me and I’ve needed to be with you, but our needs are changing. You have a world of things to do now. You won’t be bound by widow’s weeds much longer. There are others here waiting for you to emerge from mourning.”